PUPPET ON A STRING
by kaz2
Summary: Set before the beginning of the TV show 'Sherlock', how did Lestrade meet Sherlock - and his brother Mycroft? Will eventually be Mycroft/Lestrade. No John Watson in this story for the simple reason he hasn't arrived. Nice to know Sherlock has him to come, so to speak.
1. Chapter 1

PUPPET ON A STRING

KAZVL

CHAPTER 1: THE PUPPET MASTER

OCTOBER 2005

Mycroft's rise through the ranks of the Civil Service had been so meteoric that it had been a while before even he appreciated where he was heading; not MI5, or M16, but the small, select, rarely acknowledged section who coordinated the work of the Intelligence services, the government, and the civil service.

Because brilliance allied to youth was rarely taken seriously by those who mattered most, Mycroft slowly developed his own style both in dress and manner that added gravitas and the impression of age to his appearance, although he thought he must have been born looking middle-aged. He learnt to adapt to the expectations of those with whom he routinely dealt, in the process learning more than he gave away. As he continued along the crooked path to power, the role he had chosen to play subsumed him - but then he had always excelled at the roles selected for him; the only difference was that this time he got to choose.

The work was complex, demanding and more satisfying than anything he had known. Chess with human pieces was so much more agreeable than the board game because human beings were so delightfully unpredictable, even in their predictability. The 'average' man could behave in the most unexpected ways; trying to anticipate every eventuality, especially when politicians' egos were involved, was particularly interesting, not least because he had never thought of himself as a 'people person'. He even developed social skills enough to ensure his work did not suffer, an achievement which brought him a degree of sardonic amusement.

Unfortunately those skills were of absolutely no use when it came to dealing with his brother but as Sherlock was safely occupied at Pembroke College, Mycroft felt free to concentrate on work.

The news that Sherlock had abandoned Cambridge at the beginning of his final year, and that the Master had made it clear he would not be welcomed back, gained Mycroft's full attention.

It took only a short time to ascertain that Sherlock had come to London, and that he was now addicted to cocaine. But not with the 'smart' set, with their

silver accoutrements for cutting lines, Sherlock was injecting the wretched stuff. He was also, for reasons best known to himself, living on the streets

instead of in one of the properties available to him via the Vernet Estate -

second only to the Grosvenor Estate in the number and quality of properties it

owned and managed.

Then the private investigators Mycroft had hired lost track of Sherlock, who disappeared into the twilight world of the homeless addict.

Quite how Sherlock was supporting his habit, given the size of his overdraft, was a mystery. Mycroft cleared the overdraft and made substantial payments into Sherlock's bank account above the usual monthly allowance from the Trust. He could only hope it would be enough to save Sherlock from a life of crime, prostitution or both, although the former seemed more likely given Sherlock's lack of interest in sex.

There had been no activity in Sherlock's account for the last sixty-seven days. Mycroft found private investigators unsatisfactory but the only alternative was to use the security personnel who had just come under his command; he rejected that option because it would put Sherlock on the radar and Mycroft didn't want him caught up in his shadowy world. Sherlock had never played well with others and regarded rules as something to be tested to their limit, then broken. If he possessed a sense of duty, Mycroft had never been able to tap into it. Far better to keep him safely away.

On the other hand, if he couldn't trace Sherlock those dangers paled into

insignificance with what he was facing on the streets.

Had he been inclined to panic, Mycroft would have been panicking. As it was, he took up smoking again. And because he could not bear to leave the task of finding Sherlock to strangers, in the little free time his work allowed, he

walked the less salubrious areas of London, becoming familiar with the haunts of the homeless. His inexperience was such that it was four nights before he

appreciated he had been kept from harm by the security detail he hadn't known

about. It was just another small humiliation to add to those Sherlock routinely

inflicted on him.

But at least it accustomed Mycroft to the fact his career was about to enter into a stage from which there could be no turning back. If he decided to go on, perhaps to the very top, his private life would be under scrutiny twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, until the secrets he was accumulating were no longer dangerous. Or until his death.

It seemed ironic that with all the increased power at his disposal, even he

couldn't flout the anti-smoking regulations. And because it really was

impossible to cut short a meeting just to satisfy his nicotine craving, he went

cold turkey. By the time he could call himself a non-smoker, with some degree of truth, a year had gone by, Sherlock had been in rehab three times and relations between them were worse than they had ever been - which was saying something.

NOVEMBER 2006

A cold, mean drizzle had been falling all day and London was sodden beneath it. After a thirty hour day of some complexity Mycroft knew he needed to unwind before he could hope to sleep. He had never found it easy to sleep during the day, even when exhausted, and while it was dark already, it was only four in the afternoon. Of course, sex was the obvious way to relax, it would have certainly been his first choice, but uncomplicated sex for a few nights with a partner compatible with his security rating wasn't easy to find. It wasn't as if he had much time for 'dating', let alone the inclination, but unlike Sherlock he had a healthy libido and no desire for celibacy. Paying a professional would really have been so much simpler, he mused wistfully, as he left Green Park, traffic hissing wetly past at a respectable ten miles an hour. And the young men were so much more attractive.

Perhaps they should consider setting up an Establishment...

The fantasy saw him pass the Ritz and Fortnum & Mason's; with no clear

destination in mind, he continued to head towards Piccadilly Circus. It was cold

enough to mean he was losing feeling in his ears and the tip of his nose and

while it was only drizzling he was becoming quite damp. He made a note to buy an umbrella - the old-fashioned kind, with a crook handle. Quite apart from keeping him dry during his walkabouts - the only exercise he took apart from sex - an umbrella could have an added advantage as a prop to distract the attention. Umbrellas were affected; no one took a man with an umbrella seriously. It would be just the thing.

He nimbly slipped between buses, taxis and cyclists and having navigated Piccadilly Circus headed up Shaftesbury Avenue.

The smell coming from a kebab shop made his nose wrinkle with distaste, while conversely reminding him that it had been twenty hours since he had last eaten.

At least he wouldn't have to think about his diet for a while.

He would give a great deal to hear Sherlock twitting him about it again. Since Sherlock had 'escaped' from rehab two months ago there had been no trace of him. He was getting better at vanishing. Unless he was already ...

The idea was unsupportable. Besides, Sherlock had demonstrated unexpected resilience during his months on the street. Not that some of the bedsits had been much better, though none had lasted long; Sherlock would be a trying tenant, even without the experiments.

If only he knew how to harness that intelligence. He had never known what Sherlock wanted.

But then he suspected that was Sherlock's problem, nor had he.

Two of the best minds in the country and between them their list of friends totalled zero. At least he had acquaintances. God only knew what Sherlock had. Dealers, other junkies...

His brilliant brother lost in every way possible.

Mycroft ignored the depressingly seedy strip clubs as he cut through the streets of Soho to emerge on the Charing Cross Road.

A garish sign and bright lights caught his eye and he glanced in the window of the fast food emporium only to stop dead. Sherlock was huddled in a corner, picking fastidiously at what passed for food in these places.

Mycroft paused to secure his work phone and credit cards, then went inside, an inconspicious gesture of his hand telling his security detail to stay outside.

It was a mark of how low Sherlock had sunk that he didn't notice the man

approaching his table until Mycroft sat opposite him with two beakers of coffee.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft placidly, his bland expression betraying none of his relief. No sores, no bruises, no signs of attack...

"Piss off," mumbled Sherlock, stuffing something greasy into his mouth.

His fingernails were broken and stained. At least he was still working on his experiments. Which meant a laboratory, which meant he had a room somewhere again. At least some of the money leaving his bank account was being spent on something useful.

"I see you're as eloquent as ever." Mycroft set his scarf and gloves on the

table top. "What are you eating?"

"I've no idea, beyond the fact it contains the three main food groups of grease, salt and sugar."

"Delightful, I'm sure."

Sherlock's visible hand shook slightly and for one ridiculous moment Mycroft could have wept at the waste. He studied the fluid in the beaker in front of him until he was confident he would not betray himself.

"I wonder if you have given any thought to my suggestion that you take some courses that interest you. Forensic medicine, perhaps?"

"I'm gaining plenty of experience."

"I'm sure you are. My only concern is doing what."

"Afraid I'll embarrass you?" mocked Sherlock, looking up suddenly, his stare spearing Mycroft where he sat.

Sherlock was too thin, too dirty - it was always a bad sign when he neglected personal hygiene - and he looked as if he hadn't slept for a week.

"Oh, that ship sailed some years ago. You've been vocal enough about what you don't want. So tell me, brother dear, what is it you do want?"

"You to leave me the fuck alone," said Sherlock venomously.

Several heads turned. Mycroft ignored them. He took such incidents for granted when he was with Sherlock and had never cared what strangers thought - unless required to do so by his job.

"The Trust expires on your twenty-fifth birthday - eight days from now." It was only then that Mycroft remembered today was his own birthday - not that he could ever recall much cause for celebration.

"And I'll finally be free of you. It must be eating you up to think that I'll be able to squander what's mine without you interfering. Presuming you haven't

embezzled the funds, of course."

"What a pity I didn't think of it," murmured Mycroft but a muscle jumped in his jaw.

Sherlock noticed of course. He always noticed.

"I see you've moved from cocaine to heroin," added Mycroft. "Start sharing needles and you won't live long enough to squander anything." He saw that touch a nerve. So Sherlock was less sanguine than he appeared about his ability to stop the pernicious habit. Fuck.

Sherlock launched to his feet, leaning over the table to invade Mycroft's space. "Go walk under a bus," he hissed, and then he was gone.

Mycroft half-rose, then sank back onto the plastic seat. Sherlock was already lost in a sea of faces outside and he knew from experience that his security team would refuse to leave him unguarded.

Mycroft wondered at his sentimentality in permitting Sherlock to steal his wallet and the mobile phone he had bought and carried for just that purpose. But he regretted the loss of the scarf and gloves. Still, needs must.

Exhaustion washing over him, he saw it was now pouring with rain and used his work phone to summon his car. Unable to bear the smell of the place any longer, he pushed himself to his feet, pulled up the collar of his coat and went out onto the street. Sluiced by the rain, he raised his face to the deluge, as if trying to wash away the thought of Sherlock on heroin.

It could be cut with anything from powdered milk to rat poison.

Tired and preoccupied, Mycroft saw his car on the other side of the street; eager for this day to be over, he began to cross the road. While he noted the number thirty eight bus heading towards him, he failed to spot the motorcycle which sped around it to bear down on him.


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2: THE PUPPET

FEBRUARY, 2007

Lestrade carried the last sagging cardboard box down to his new flat. While it was far lighter than many basement flats he had seen, it was chilly and grubby, an impression heightened by the Seventies wallpaper, dingy, chipped paintwork, fraying, stained carpets and a kitchen and bathroom which must have been all the rage when installed forty years ago. The central heating boiler wasn't much younger. There wouldn't be many improvements until his finances had recovered from the battering they'd taken; even amicable divorces had hidden financial costs and this mortgage was stretching his budget to the limit. While he and Julia had got a good price for the house, they'd had to split the equity and property prices were appalling. He could have looked for a place farther out but he'd had enough of commuting for hour and a quarter at each end of the day. Besides, the only reason he'd been able to afford this was because it hadn't been modernised.

He went to take a pee and grimaced when he was reminded of the horror of the bathroom suite. No doubt he'd get used to avocado. In time. But he wasn't using the bath or shower until they'd had an industrial level clean.

At least the water and electricity were on, though the gasman wouldn't be here until tomorrow, so no heat. No hot water for a shower.

No marriage.

Thought stopped him cold. The divorce would take a while to run its course but there was no turning back. He and Julia had been drifting apart for years, the gap widening so slowly that he had barely noticed it until he found himself staring across the chasm at the woman he had once loved.

Stubble rasped as he rubbed a hand over his chin. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't pick over the bones any more. Julia had her P.E. teacher and he...he had his job.

He started to unpack the stack of boxes and black plastic sacks, trying to remember where essentials like the kettle might be. He had meant to mark everything but work had been brutal and he'd barely had time to shove things in sacks before snatching a few hours sleep and starting all over again.

It was only when he headed into his bedroom that Lestrade remembered he had no furniture, only a sleeping bag. He had told Julia to keep their furniture; she had chosen it and frankly he didn't want reminders of a time when he had been happy.

Happy... There was a thought.

Before self-pity could swamp him again, he grabbed the car keys and went off to do some shopping while he still had wheels - Julia needed a car more than he did and the cash she'd given him would pay for some second-hand furniture to keep him going. Familiar with the area, he knew where the various shops were to be found. The Heart Foundation had a charity shop specialising in furniture and household goods; he ordered a battered pine table, two chairs, two bookcases, a wooden bedframe and a sofa which looked - and smelt - almost new. They cost more than he had anticipated but they were better quality than he had expected. He arranged for delivery the following morning, which would tie in nicely with the gasman and delivery of the new mattress.

Several hours of furious activity later, with the old carpets ripped up and taken down the tip and everywhere scrubbed to within an inch of its life, the place looked even bigger and smelt clean and fresh. Of course, it was a pity he had forgotten to buy light bulbs but you couldn't have everything.

The light was going, and with it the unseasonable warmth - it had been a beautiful day for the time of year. Despite the chill he left the old French doors open on to his very own garden. In London. Only thirty feet of it, true and currently covered in broken concrete, but his, with high brick walls for privacy. He sat on the step to eat a bowl of porridge in lieu of an evening meal, listening as neighbours got on with their lives, absorbing the sound of silence on his side of the wall.

Ripping off the nicotine patch he wore, he lit up. This was it, his new life, listening to other people get on with theirs while he... He wondered if there was much demand for a single, well-used workaholic.

His sense of isolation increasing, it felt uncomfortably reminiscent of the childhood spent in the Care Home that hadn't, the uncertainty of life stretching out in a remorseless grey void.

Which was fucking pathetic.

He was not going to become the cliché of a middle-aged copper, burying himself in the bottle. Besides, thirty-seven...he was in the prime of life.

He gave a soft snort of sardonic amusement. That would be right.

Still, no point moping. Surprised to discover it was already gone nine, he locked up, checked he had his wallet, phone and keys and drove the car - Julia's now - back to Barnes, where she was staying with her sister until she completed on the purchase of her new place.

It was a relief to see that Julia looked about as shell-shocked as he felt; like him she was putting a brave face on it.

"How will you get back?" she asked. "The buses aren't up to much this time of night and the nearest tube station is on the other side of the river."

Lestrade gave a faint smile. She always forgot he was a Londoner born and bred and that he knew the city better than any taxi driver.

"No worries. I'm in a mood for a walk and as I've got the rest of the week off I can indulge myself. Look after yourself."

"You, too," she murmured, kissing his cheek.

First physical intimacy they'd shared for...

New beginnings, he reminded himself briskly, before he turned away from his old life.

Fifteen minutes later Lestrade was crossing Hammersmith Bridge, humming 'Clever Trevor'. It was late enough for the traffic to have finally thinned out and mid-week there weren't many late night revellers.

As he neared the Hammersmith end of the bridge he noticed a figure down on the shoreline, lurching around in the mud. High as a kite by the look of him. He seemed to be searching for something - probably dropped his stash.

So much for his day off. With a sigh of resignation, Lestrade headed down the steps. He wouldn't leave anyone playing in the mud while the tide was coming in; it didn't do to take the Thames for granted.

He tried calling to the man but the wind blew away the sound of his voice.

It was like watching a particularly leggy version of Gollum squishing around in the mud. The bloke was rake-thin, which exaggerated the length of leg and arm, and his trousers and feet were liberally weighed down with mud.

Glad he was still wearing the clothes in which he'd been cleaning the flat, Lestrade picked his way over to the man, his expression hardening as he drew close enough to hear that the seemingly demented mutterings were about rates of decomposition.

Then he saw the severed leg.

It took most of the night to sort out the mess.

While his 'Gollum' had fresh track marks, he wasn't high, or carrying. Lestrade still wasn't sure what to make of Sherlock. He was in better physical condition than the majority of those who lived on the streets; his clothes and shoes looked designer label quality, even if the names didn't mean anything to him, and they fitted too well to be second-hand. No watch, jewellery or ID,

intelligent, articulate and with an accent that screamed public school. Even this short acquaintance had been enough to demonstrate that Sherlock was arrogant, impatient and insulting in that casual throwaway style he'd last heard while dating Baltazar, his very own Sloane Ranger - and that had been pre-Julia. So...fifteen years ago? Must be. A lifetime.

But he'd forgotten how entertaining it could be. And Sherlock was bright, intimidatingly bright, offering leaps of logic amidst the streams of conjecture and information, so that you were at least two sentences behind him all the time.

"Do try to keep up, Inspector," Sherlock had said impatiently at one point.

Lestrade had just grinned, enjoying his cheek. Then he'd realised he wasn't joking.

"Perhaps if you were to speak slower," he suggested dryly.

"At least you were listening. Can I have a cigarette?"

"How - ?" Lestrade grimaced. He been chain-smoking all evening. "Sure."

Sherlock bent to the flame, inhaled deeply. "Currently under some stress, recently divorced - no, in the process. Been using cleaning products, so just moved. Something in need of renovation but - "

"That's enough!" said Lestrade, grateful that none of his team were within earshot. "I like my private life to be just that, OK?"

"Intriguing."

"Not really. But I'm their boss - and I see more than enough of them at work."

"Boring."

"Just smoke the damn cigarette. In fact you can have the rest of the packet."

"How many times have you given up?" asked Sherlock slyly, but he pocketed the cigarettes quickly enough.

"Too many. How about you?"

"What are we talking about here?"

"Cigarettes. And...heroin would be my guess."

"Not bad," allowed Sherlock, with the faintest of smiles. "If you're giving up, you won't need your lighter either."

Lestrade laughed. "Here you go. Why don't I just empty out my wallet and let you pick through it. Not that you'll find much. Come on, into the car with you. I have the feeling you'll be able to help with our enquiries."

"Oh, I can."

Sherlock had been right. For a detective wannabe he had come up with some shrewd observations about the likely age and nationality of the owner of the leg, what had been used to sever it and the whereabouts of the rest of the corpse. There were ferociously strong currents in the Thames, about which Sherlock knew far too much.

He had also linked the corpse with his claim that homeless people were vanishing from the streets. Which was a no-brainer. The attrition rate was appalling. Between drugs, alcohol, hypothermia in winter, poor, if any, medical treatment and attacks...

But it couldn't hurt to look into it after his leave.

More interestingly, given the track marks old and new, Sherlock wasn't in the system. Nor had he called up any big guns. Usually someone from his background couldn't wait to invoke the power of money, or family influence and Lestrade would stake his new flat on Sherlock having access to at least one of the two. His kind of arrogance needed firm roots and there was nothing like old money for giving a sense of stability.

A new nicotine patch in place, Lestrade finished off the last of the necessary paperwork. He sipped without enthusiasm at the lukewarm tea from the vending machine and wished he had chosen coffee. Not that it made much difference to the taste.

His team were beavering away - they were coming together nicely - though he'd swear his new detective constable, Sally Donovan, was already gunning for his job. She was bright, thorough and seemed honest; on the downside, she was inclined to be too brisk with victims and their families. There again, some coppers never quite got used to the fact that not everyone was a suspect. And she was sometimes too quick to leap to conclusions. He gave an involuntary grin. She certainly hadn't approved of his releasing Sherlock. Though that could have been due to the fact Sherlock had pointed out she had recently gained four pounds in weight. Loud enough for everyone to hear.

Could tell he'd never been married.

His long day catching up with him, Lestrade yawned and leant back in his chair, his eyelids feeling weighted from lack of sleep.

"Wakey, wakey, Greg," said his DCI, sounding disgustingly lively for a man close to retirement. "What have you been up to? The Chief Super wants a word. I thought you had a few days off?"

"I made the mistake of checking that a bloke paddling around in Thames mud was all right and discovered he'd found a severed leg. Why is it that good deeds always bite you on the arse?"

"You think you'd know better after all these years. You'd best hot-foot it to the DCS's office. Have we got a new dress code I should know about?"

"I understand you're not officially on duty," said the Detective Chief Superintendent, taking in the paint-splattered, torn jeans and faded sweatshirt with one comprehensive glance as Lestrade entered his office. His tone was untypically jovial but his eyes were coldly assessing behind his gold-rimmed spectacles.

Lestrade gave mental thanks to his DCI for paving his way.

"Ah, no, sir. I moved today and was cleaning my new flat, hence..." His gestured down, noting that he'd lost a fly-button on his fifteen-year-old 501s. Hardly surprising really, it was a wonder he'd been able to fit into them.

"There's someone who wants to see you. Someone rather important."

"Me?"

"So it seems. He's one of those grey, anonymous men in suits who always get what they want."

"IPCC?"

"Worse than those buggers. I reckon he's a secret bloody squirrel."

It took a moment to sink in. "You mean like James Bond?" Lestrade was mortified to hear himself ask.

The Chief Superintendent's face cracked into something resembling a smile. "Only if James Bond carries an umbrella and has a face the colour of an uncooked pudding. He's younger than I expected, given his obvious seniority, and he's slick as a dog turd on the sole of your shoe. Watch your back, Greg."

Lestrade felt a slither of apprehension. It was never good news when the Chief Superintendent remembered your name.

"Sir."

"Well, off you go. He'll be here at ten. You've just got time to go home and change. A shave wouldn't go amiss."

As Lestrade's main criteria when selecting clothes was affordability and comfort, it was difficult to imagine anything in his wardrobe making a good impression but at least he'd get a decent cup of tea before this meeting.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3: STRING PULLING

FEBRUARY 2007

Even if Lestrade hadn't known the man was a secret squirrel, he would have realised he was important by the room they had been allocated. He hadn't even known where the Assistant Commissioner's office was until he'd been directed there.

He walked in to see a man a few years younger than himself, of average build and superior expression, propped against the edge of the shiny walnut veneered desk. His long legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. Lestrade studied him from his large, narrow feet in the expensive looking shoes, to the half-tamed, just-beginning-to-recede hair, pricing the elegant charcoal-grey suit on the way. The crimson tie shouldn't have worked with that colour hair and freckles but it did. While obviously expensive and beautifully finished, the suit was slightly too large, as if the man had lost weight recently, although whether because of illness, injury or diet wasn't immediately clear.

The DCS's remark about 'uncooked pudding' was a bit unfair. The man was pale but that went with the colouring. He had a severe, down-turned mouth, long nose and chilly blue eyes, in a face accustomed to guarding its secrets. The design of the shirt collar and angle at which the tie had been fastened were intended to distract from a longer than usual neck. So, a peacock and, given the way he was toying with that crook-handled umbrella, a bit of a poser. With some people you would assume it stemmed from insecurity, but this bloke exuded confidence like an expensive cologne.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said, introducing himself when it become obvious the man wasn't going to break the silence. "You wanted to see me?"

"Indeed, Detective Inspector. I understand you brought Sherlock Holmes in for questioning last night."

The smooth voice was soft, as if the man expected people to make the effort to listen. It was a good strategy for taking control of a conversation without overt aggression and Lestrade made a note to try that trick himself.

Interrogations required all kinds of techniques, depending on the suspect. He wouldn't fancy his chances getting this bloke to talk...

"That's right. He was helping us with our enquiries." It had been a long night; deciding he would be old and grey before he was invited to sit, Lestrade made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs.

The man raised a ginger eyebrow but let it pass. "And did Sherlock help?"

"He has provided some useful information. We are pursuing our enquiries."

"Very right and proper, Detective Inspector, but unhelpful."

Tetchy from lack of sleep and no breakfast, Lestrade held his gaze without difficulty. "I wasn't aware I was required to be 'helpful'."

The cool eyes narrowed. "Detective Inspector, you may have time to waste, I do not. If I have to call the Assistant Commissioner, I will."

"Please do." Lestrade gestured to the land telephone on the desk. "I'd rather like a word with him myself - to confirm what the hell I'm doing here. This has to be about more than Sherlock."

"Why?"

Taken aback by the simple question, Lestrade regrouped. "He's not even in the system."

"I know," said the man with suspect patience. "My interest is in Sherlock Holmes - and your enquiries only insofar as they pertain to him. You may have noticed that he has a certain chemical dependence." While the words were chosen with care, Lestrade heard the question that wasn't asked. He answered it because there was a faint possibility the bloke might care. Though it was difficult to imagine this one worrying about anything but the crease in his trousers.

"He's a junkie," said Lestrade bluntly. "From the track marks, he's been mainlining for months. But last night he wasn't high and he wasn't carrying. Which is why he wasn't detained after he had helped us with our enquiries. He was offered counselling, which he declined with some...um..."

"Not, I trust, with force?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not at all. He was just...more articulate than the Custody Officer is used to. Anyway, because he was clean, we - I - sent him home."

"Unfortunate. Do you have an address for him?"

"He's living in a bedsit in Stoke Newington. A patrol car drove him home - and checked that he is living there. His rent is paid until the end of the month."

"Did they see signs of a laboratory? He's by way of being an amateur chemist."

"He's obviously got a glowing future ahead of him. Does he distribute whatever it is he's concocting?"

"Certainly not."

In other circumstances Lestrade would have found the hauteur amusing. "What's your interest in Sherlock? It's difficult to imagine him making a reliable informant. You're not old enough to be his father - "

"Too kind." There was a faint, betraying edge to the voice.

" - and he isn't toyboy material. Not with his manner and way with words. What's your interest in Sherlock Holmes?"

"I want his address."

"For what purpose? He's committed no crime."

"That you know of."

"Do you know better?" asked Lestrade sharply.

"The Assistant Commissioner led me to believe I would receive every assistance." The threat wasn't even veiled.

Pinned by an assessing gaze, Lestrade had the impression that modes of execution were being considered. "It's a pity he never thought to mention that to me." It would probably earn him a right royal bollocking from up above but he resented being slapped around by some posh tosser in a suit that probably cost more than his new car - new second-hand car.

"That might be due to the fact that it's entirely possible he was unaware of your existence." The long mouth pursed in obvious irritation at Lestrade's obstructive behaviour.

For one lunatic moment Lestrade was distracted by the image of those pink, prissy lips taking in his cock, or of wrecking that formidable control with sex, of hearing that soft voice broken by climax... Fuck. He really needed to get a life. Or just sex. He couldn't afford to be fussy. But he'd always had a soft spot for posh totty.

Disconcerted by that train of thought, Lestrade coughed and ran a hand over his hair before his brain kicked in as blood returned to it. "How is it you've heard of me?"

"Ah. I was pursuing my enquiries," the man said wryly, his mouth quirking as he invited Lestrade to share the joke.

Despite himself, Lestrade grinned in acknowledgement. "Fair point. I'll take you to see Sherlock on one condition. That I remain until he asks me to leave."

The man uncrossed his ankles and slowly straightened. There seemed to be something wrong with his left leg, that umbrella less of a prop and more of a support, despite the fact it was too short to do the job properly. "Are you this protective of every junkie you meet?"

That moment of warmth had been so fleeting Lestrade wondered if he had imagined it. "Only when they draw the attention of a secret squirrel."

"I beg your pardon?" said the man blankly.

"You. You're Secret Service."

"My dear Detective Inspector, I fear you're labouring under a misapprehension. Far from being a...secret squirrel, I merely hold a minor position at the Department of Transport. Just one of many cogs in the wheel."

"And I'm King of the Fairies."

That disquieting gaze travelled over him again, taking even longer this time. Lestrade resisted the impulse to fidget. This secret squirrel would go straight for your nuts - and not in a good way.

"Perhaps you would care to call my office in Marsham Street to verify as much."

"What would be the point? You'd have to be an idiot not to have a convincing cover."

The mouth quirked again. "Too kind. Shall we go?"

Lestrade gave a resigned sigh.

He wasn't wholly amazed by the chauffeur-driven car, the luxurious interior or the fact his companion ignored him until they reached the address Lestrade had given the driver.

The bedsit was in the attic of a run-down terraced house, the final flight of stairs steep, the tread narrow and awkward for anyone with a bum leg. While Lestrade's companion made no complaint, he obviously found the stairs taxing, sweat gleaming on his high forehead by the time they reached the door. He took a few moments to control his breathing while he unobtrusively shifted his weight to his right leg, before he briskly tapped on the door with the handle of his umbrella.

There were sounds of activity, then the door was wrenched open; it would have been instantly slammed shut but for the secret squirrel jamming his foot in the gap.

"I hoped you were dead."

The loathing in Sherlock's voice made Lestrade's eyes narrow, wondering about their history. He didn't fancy getting caught between this pair, that was for sure.

"Patience, Sherlock."

"Have you found any more body parts?" Sherlock added eagerly, when he saw Lestrade, "only I've been making some more calculations based on - "

"Sherlock..."

"Piss off, Mycroft. It's been three months. I hoped you'd finally taken the hint."

"No more body parts," said Lestrade. Mycroft... Poor sod, he must've taken some stick at school. Though it was marginally better than Sherlock. His eyes narrowed as he looked between the two men, suddenly placing his nagging sense of familiarity when he'd met the secret squirrel...Mycroft.

"Well, there's no point you staying if you don't have any work for me, Lestrade. Have you looked into those missing people yet? I can help. And with other cases.

"Mind where you're walking!" Sherlock yelled to Mycroft. "I'm conducting several experiments and I don't want your size elevens trampling over everything!"

"What?" Only when a firm hand left the small of his back did Lestrade appreciate he had been eased into the shabby bedsit which, while it looked like a health hazard, seemed to have some method to its madness. And it didn't smell nearly as bad as he had been expecting. He watched Mycroft sit on a grubby plastic chair by the small table, making a virtue of necessity.

"I could work with you. Solving murders," said Sherlock. There was a troubling hint of desperation in his voice.

"That's my job. The days of the amateur detective are long gone - if they ever existed outside the pages of detective novels," said Lestrade, exuding calm. There were far too many sharp implements around for his peace of mind.

"Stop talking rubbish," said Sherlock impatiently. "There's nothing amateur about my methods. For instance..."

"Later, Sherlock. First, the grown ups need to chat," said Mycroft. "Detective Inspector, shall we?" He gestured to the door.

"Where - exactly - do you imagine we're going?"

"I thought lunch. You appear not to have eaten for some time - "

"Feeble," sniffed Sherlock. "I can hear his stomach rumbling from here. And the last thing you need is more food. You're looking porky. But I like that suit, it makes you look like a gangester - or an undertaker."

"You don't want to know what I think of your outfit," Mycroft assured him, but his gaze lingered on the navy scarf Sherlock wore. As if realising what he was doing, he frowned at a teapot, leant closer as though he heard something, then gingerly poked it, desisting when a fine grey dust wafted out of the spout.

"Don't start," warned Sherlock. "I never wanted you here in the first place."

"That would never occur to me. We'll return later. Be here. You may actually want to hear what I have to tell you."

"That would have the merit of novelty."

"He's not coming with us?" said Lestrade.

"Hardly," said Mycroft. "You can bring him back a doggy bag if it troubles you."

"Ah, I was right," said Lestrade. "You are brothers."

"That's not a bad deduction for a policeman," said Sherlock. "Unless he - " he jerked his head in Mycroft's direction " - gave the game away."

"Actually you did," Lestrade told him, accepting the implied insult with no more than a blink. He was getting used to Sherlock's charm of manner. Truth be told, he wasn't convinced Sherlock always understood just how rude he was being.

"Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's older brother," said Mycroft, extending his hand.

Lestrade added 'married' to the little he knew about Mycroft Holmes; he hadn't noticed the wedding ring before. Mycroft's hand was cold, the clasp firm and for just the right length of time. Presumably civil servants were required to take an 'O' Level in hand-shaking - or maybe that was just for secret squirrels.

"Bane, more like," said Sherlock sulkily. The only heating in the room was an ancient electric fire. He crouched in front of it, extending his hands.

"Nice gloves," said Mycroft dryly.

"I'm sure they must have been fashionable fifty years ago but they're better than nothing."

"I imagine they must be," agreed Mycroft, before he turned to Lestrade.

"May I ask what gave us away."

Lestrade was glad to see he looked decidedly miffed. "Distinctive yet similar first names. Public school accents. Sherlock knew your shoe size. And for all the vitriolic exchanges, you're physically comfortable with each other, while obviously not in a relationship. Then there are the physical similarities."

"He's not bad, is he," said Sherlock, sounding distressingly similar to a proud parent.

"You must be catching." Lestrade grimaced at being reduced to a show-off.

"I don't understand why you didn't tell me about your relationship back at the Yard," he added to Mycroft. "It would have speeded things along."

"Consider me duly chastised," said Mycroft silkily, his eyes narrowing.

It occurred to Lestrade that this wasn't a man accustomed to being taken to task. Less James Bond, more M. Or perhaps only K or L at the moment; he couldn't be more than his mid-thirties, if that.

"I'm sorry if I spoilt sport," said Lestrade without audible regret. "I hadn't

realised this was a game. As I'm obviously not required for this family reunion,

I'll leave you to it. Are there just the two of you?"

"Of course," said Sherlock impatiently.

Mycroft glanced at his brother and when he had his attention, shook his head which, wonder of wonders, made Sherlock fall silent. Not because he'd been cowed into obedience, more that he'd been reminded of the need for privacy - which would make sense if Mycroft was a secret squirrel, thought Lestrade, fascinated by the dynamic between the brothers.

"May I ask why you want to know, Detective Inspector?"

"It's just that I don't think I could cope with more than two of you."

That earned Lestrade the ghost of a smile. "I admire your confidence, even though I feel it's misplaced," murmured Mycroft.

"But what about the remains?" Sherlock swivelled around where he was still crouched by the fire.

"Enquiries are proceeding. Thanks again for your help."

"Before you go, I need to make a phone call. In private. Would you be kind enough to wait here?" said Mycroft.

There was only one possible answer. Lestrade gave a resigned nod. Only when Mycroft had left the room did he wonder if Mycroft was calling the Assistant Commissioner to complain about him. He'd been bloody childish but there was something about Mycroft Holmes that rubbed him the wrong way.

"I could murder a cup of tea," said Sherlock, some time later.

It was a moment before Lestrade appreciated that he was supposed to play housemaid. "Me, too. Milk, no sugar."

"I've only got one mug."

"So you have," discovered Lestrade as he investigated the tiny area that passed for a kitchen. "What's this growing in it?"

"I can't remember."

Tired as he was, Lestrade finally placed Sherlock's look. "How long have you been clean?"

"Eight days."

"Then you're through the worst," said Lestrade encouragingly.

"Until the next time." Sherlock immediately looked away, as if regretting the confidence.

"There doesn't have to be a next time."

"There's always a next time! I can't seem to do without - " Sherlock launched to his feet, sweeping some saucers from table to floor in a pettish fit of frustration.

"Really, Sherlock," chided Mycroft as he returned to the room in time to see that. "If you hope to work with the Detective Inspector..."

"What?"

"What!"

While Sherlock and Lestrade spoke in unison, only Sherlock looked excited.

"The Assistant Commissioner is of the view that cooperation between certain of his detectives - you Detective Inspector Lestrade - and members of the public - you, Sherlock - could have a beneficial impact on crime statistics. Or at least your solve rate, Detective Inspector, which seems to be lamentably low - if higher than that of some of your colleagues."

There was no immediate protest from Lestrade; no response at all in fact. The silence came close to being awkward and Mycroft's expression of smug satisfaction was replaced by a faint frown.

"My job, what I do, is not an intellectual game," said Lestrade at last. "Not to me, not to those I serve." Warmth banished from his face and voice, he looked stern and tired; there was a trace of contempt in his expression. "While you obviously have no respect - either for me, or the work I do - I would have hoped you would be capable of grasping that the police are constantly dealing with the lives of real people, often when they're at their most vulnerable as they go through the worst days of their lives. Yet you expect me to allow some dilettante with no social skills that I've discovered to trample..." His roughened voice shook and he stopped, so angry he literally could not speak.

Before Mycroft could respond Lestrade brushed past him but he paused at the door of the bedsit.

"What have you got on the Assistant Commissioner?"

"Really, Detective Inspector."

"It must be something huge to make him agree to this lunatic idea. It won't work. How can it? Sherlock's a junkie. He knows nothing about crime scene procedure, the preservation of evidence, and let's not think about his people skills. As a serving police officer I cannot be seen to, nor would I, facilitate his habit."

"What if I can get clean?" said Sherlock, who gave no indication of being upset by that assessment.

Lestrade turned to face him. "The trick is to stay that way. I can't allow a junkie at a crime scene, or to work a case. I'd expect a urine test from you at any time I choose. Fail one and you're out. Compromise a crime scene, or the integrity of a case, and you're out - plus I'd do my best to see you were charged. You need to understand police procedures. There's no way I'd want to rely on your evidence in court. And that's nothing to do with your habit and everything to do with the fact you're a rude and arrogant tosser who would rub everyone the wrong way."

"Boring. I didn't say 'No', did I?" Sherlock added immediately.

"You would be willing to accept help from a civilian, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft had been dividing his attention between Lestrade and his brother. He couldn't remember the last time he had seen Sherlock so engaged, his eyes brilliant with something that had nothing to do with opiates.

"Do I have a choice that doesn't involve unemployment?" said Lestrade, emotion flattened from his voice.

Mycroft gave a small grimace of vexation. "Of course."

Lestrade blinked. "What brought about that change of heart?"

Mycroft pursed his lips, then said, "I apologise if, in our eagerness, Sherlock and I appeared to disparage the work of the police - "

"But you've said yourself that the average policeman's IQ is equal to his shoe size."

"Sherlock! Not now!" snapped Mycroft in exasperation. "This is no time for a display of your dubious sense of humour." He turned back and with no great surprise discovered Lestrade had walked out.

"Well done, brother. If you're serious about wanting to work with the police you've just made the likelihood more remote. The only way it can happen is if you can persuade a serving police officer of the appropriate rank to work with you. And even I can only create the possibility of that happening."

"You can do anything you want! If you really wanted to! You're always trying to control what I do!" There was a ragged note of hysteria in Sherlock's voice.

Sherlock had never grasped the fact that with maturity came responsibilities, things you sometimes loathed but had to tolerate: compromise; boredom with the unrelenting tedium of some days; making some of the most difficult decisions of your life and living with consequences; duty. The idea of Sherlock putting anyone above his immediate gratification was absurd. Abruptly Mycroft lost patience with his histrionics.

"Will you listen to yourself! You're not fourteen! When are you going to start taking responsibility for - "

"Because you're so fucking perfect! You always ruin everything! Just get out, go!" His neck corded, teeth bared, the hatred on Sherlock's face was shocking.

Too tired to trust himself to deal with this right now, Mycroft turned away and so did not see the flimsy plastic chair Sherlock kicked into his path until he tripped over it. His ankle gave way and he fell, his full weight taken by his still healing knee.

Mycroft's world turned red-spiked, the pain stealing away even the ability to breathe. Teeth clenched, he heard the sound which escaped his controls without being able to stop it.

When at last the pain eased enough for him to be able to think, he was shivering and sweating and Sherlock was crouched at his side, supporting him.

"You clumsy great lump," said Sherlock. But his hands were gentle as he helped Mycroft to sit up.

"It's fine," gasped Mycroft breathlessly, the effect ruined by the fact pain had made his eyes water.

"Of course it is. It's your left leg. Primarily the knee, possible ligament damage to the ankle. An accident. Car, no, a motorbike. Not travelling above - "

"I'm familiar with what occurred."

"Is this why you haven't been round for more than three months?"

"You made it plain you didn't want to see me."

"As if you've ever taken any notice of what I say. Do you want to get up? I can clear the bed."

"Not just yet."

"I didn't know." Sherlock continued to monitor Mycroft's pulse, that telling him more about the level of discomfort his brother was experiencing than Mycroft ever would.

"There's no reason why you should."

"This doesn't change anything between us."

"I didn't image it would," said Mycroft peaceably.

"Here."

Mycroft took one look at the pillow being offered to him and almost had a relapse. "No. Thank you."

"I was using it to... Never mind."

The silence which fell was surprisingly comfortable, given their history.

"I've been clean for eight days," offered Sherlock out of the blue. "I'm really trying this time."

Mycroft looked up, a rare, genuine smile lighting his face as Sherlock made reparation in the only way he knew. "Then I have every confidence you'll succeed. When you apply your mind to a problem, your concentration is second to none. Will you help me to my feet?" The process was more uncomfortable than he had anticipated.

"You should see a doctor."

"It's fine so long as I don't jar my knee. It wears off." Mycroft concentrated on straightening his disordered clothing, then sat on the plastic chair which had caused the problem.

"You should use a crutch."

"And you should get a job."

"Boring."

"And yet millions of people grit their teeth and get on with it."

"Don't!"

"Very well."

"Can you get me access to a morgue?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"Do I want to know why?"

"Probably not," Sherlock conceded.

"Bart's is a possibility."

"And convenient."

"I'm almost afraid to ask for what."

"I'll be renting a couple of rooms quite near there from next month. Better than this."

Mycroft resolutely did not say the first three things which sprang to mind. "I'll see what I can arrange. You'll let me have your new address?"

"Of course. Do you think Lestrade will work with me?"

"I'll have another word with him - though it will have to be tomorrow. This evening I have a meeting I can't get out of. I handled him badly. Persuasion would have worked so much better but by the time I realised that I'd blown it."

"Offer him money," said Sherlock, only half-joking.

"The drawback of honest policemen is that they can't be bribed. Of course, if Lestrade could, you wouldn't be working with him."

"Why not? I would have thought that would be useful."

"He could sell you out to the highest bidder. You'll have to abide by Lestrade's terms," Mycroft warned.

"I can do that. He isn't like the other police I met on the streets. He treated me decently."

Mycroft nodded. "I'm not surprised. He has a reputation for being a decent, hard-working, honest - "

"Dull," dismissed Sherlock, with a wave of his hand.

"Quite possibly. Don't be too quick to rush to judgment. He was serious about you needing to stay clean."

"I could tell. I thought the heroin would help. I thought I could control it." Sherlock sounded as though the words had been forced from him.

Wary of saying anything that might ruin the moment, Mycroft nodded.

"I need...stimulation. My mind stagnates and..." Sherlock shrugged and fell silent.

"As I am constantly discovering in my work, the motivations of others provides endless interest," offered Mycroft circumspectly.

"I don't always understand the emotions that drive people."

"Observe more, talk less," said Mycroft crisply.

Sherlock gave the faintest of smiles as he traced the reference. "That didn't work even when I was seven."

"No. Nothing ever stopped you talking." Except cocaine, heroin...

"About the Trust," said Sherlock abruptly.

Mycroft only realised he had been dozing when he jolted awake. "It's expired," he reminded his brother, struggling to concentrate.

"I hardly need reminding. I'm being plagued by solicitors, bank managers, financial advisers... Take it back. All I want is a decent allowance each month and the bills taken care of. I haven't got the time to waste on that nonsense."

That Mycroft might have far greater demands on his time seemed not to have occurred to him. Mycroft saw no point in mentioning it.

"You want me to manage your affairs again?"

"I thought I just said so."

"But you were adamant that - "

"I was wrong. There, I've said it. Satisfied?"

"I'll need your signature once I've had the authorisations drawn up."

"Forge it," said Sherlock carelessly.

"Sherlock."

"All right, all right. I'll sign whatever you like."

"Then I'll see to everything. On one condition."

Sherlock looked wary. "What?"

"No more complaints."

"Don't be ridiculous. You know you've missed them."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock got up to make tea, using two chipped cereal bowls in lieu of cups.

The infuriating thing was that Sherlock was right.

But he was damned if he was going to risk drinking that tea.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4: TANGLING THE STRINGS

The pouring rain had done nothing to cool Lestrade's temper by the time he reached New Scotland Yard.

Fucking unbelievable. Who did Mycroft Holmes think he was? The guy with the ear of the Assistant Commissioner, that's who.

If the AC was bent...

As if his life wasn't complicated enough.

He thought the better of going up to his office, removed the nicotine patch and went back out to buy some cigarettes and a cheap lighter. Then he had to find some shelter under which to smoke the ruddy things.

It was a disgusting bloody habit. But how could you be expected to give them up when arrogant gits like Mycroft Holmes - Just how powerful was he? What was he, come to that?

With no wish to use his mobile, Lestrade nipped down into St. James's Park tube station to use a landline telephone.

The central switchboard at the Department of Transport were well-trained. Within seconds he had been put on to Mr Holmes's P.A., Viola Adair.

He rang off immediately. So Mycroft had got good cover.

Within a short space of time he was back at the Yard, checking the CCTV footage of all the areas Mycroft would have gone through, then the internal security cameras. While it wasn't much of a surprise by this time, Lestrade still felt a chill at his back when he discovered there were no images of Mycroft Holmes.

What did Mycroft have on the Assistant Commissioner? There had been so many scandals about corruption in the Met. recently; every time you thought it couldn't get worse, it did. Now he had to find a way to investigate the AC without involving any of his team - no point risking their careers too. As for looking farther up the chain for help... The DCI was too close to retiring to think of risking his pension, the DCS... Lestrade gave a snort of derision. IPCC was an option but only as a last resort. Until then he was on his own.

He was fighting the urge to go and have another cigarette when it occurred to him that he needed to try to protect himself. Mycroft might be powerful but there was no point making it easy for him - though he'd claimed his job wasn't at risk.

There again, as a secret squirrel he lied for a living.

While he was being driven to Pall Mall to shower and change, still debating whether or not to burn this suit after visiting Sherlock's bedsit, Mycroft called his new assistant for an update on Lestrade's movements.

Three sentences into Grahame's report, which offered a blow by blow account of which foot Lestrade had put in front of the other, Mycroft made a mental note to find an assistant better equipped for the demands of the job. And where to place Grahame where he could do no harm; earnest, thorough and devoid of anything approaching a sense of humour... He would be perfect for transfer to any number of Departments. Works and Pensions was probably the safest.

" - CCTV and internal security footage."

"I left instructions that they were not to be wiped in this instance."

There was a nasty silence at the other end.

"Ah. Sorry, sir. That message didn't get through because..." There was an audible gulp. "...I forgot to pass it on."

Mycroft looked pained. So much for convincing Lestrade he worked for the Department of Transport. Fortunate that every report to date suggested that Lestrade was a sea-green incorruptible.

"Anything more on Lestrade?" he asked brusquely.

"He left instructions for his team to investigate reports on missing homeless people, unidentified bodies or body parts, cross-referenced with missing person reports. He used his office computer to write to his bank and the solicitor who's handling his divorce."

"Concerning the divorce?" said Mycroft, his impatience thinly veiled.

" - to ensure no payments are made into his bank account, except for his salary and expenses - "

With half an ear on the rambling report, Mycroft gave a grudging nod of approval. At least Lestrade wasn't a complete idiot. Unfortunately that also meant he would now be certain that he was a 'secret squirrel'. Which reminded him.

"Grahame, a precis on 'secret squirrels'."

"Sir?"

Dear Lord, there was nothing else for it, he would have to interview the next assistant himself...

It was almost midnight by the time Lestrade got back to his flat, having been so preoccupied that he had started off in the direction of his old house before he had remembered he had a new address. Ridiculous. But proof he needed to get his head down for some sleep.

Despite his fatigue, Lestrade slept poorly, the floorboards seeming excessively hard to his tired body, the noises of the flat different from those to which he was accustomed, and so cold that it made his nose run.

Handkerchiefs. God knows where all his had vanished to but he'd better add them to the list.

He hadn't taken Mycroft seriously at all but if he could command the kind of casual power that could wipe security footage within Scotland Yard then he was bloody dangerous.

He should have left Sherlock to the Thames.

Good deeds always bit you in the arse.

He gave up the pretence of sleep just after five. Not only were the floorboards hard but the flat was close to freezing and he was starving because his last meal had been over twenty four hours ago. Shuddering with the cold, he pulled on as many layers of clothing as he could. Cleanliness could take a back seat until he had heating and hot water and as he couldn't find his electric shaver the itch of stubble would just have to drive him crazy.

After a bowl of porridge, two apples with peanut butter and two cups of tea, he felt more human. It might be a bland diet but it was cheap and nutritious and had seen him through hard times before. The less he spent, the quicker he could get the flat fixed. Maybe then it would feel like home.

With reluctance he took off his padded jacket to pull his decorating sweatshirt over the various layers he was wearing; he wasted no time in starting to strip wallpaper in the large living room. It was hard going, with forty years' worth of decorating to work through - he'd already gone down seven layers of increasingly stubborn paper. He should have invested in a steamer. It was going to take forever with just a scraper, sponge and hot water. But he couldn't go out because of all the deliveries he was expecting. He just hoped the gas man came early - and that the central heating system wouldn't need replacing just yet.

The furniture arrived just after nine, the mattress approximately twenty minutes later.

Lestrade was back stripping wallpaper and fighting the urge for a cigarette when he heard the front door bell wheeze. Batteries. Something else he'd forgotten. Along with new bedding. He and Julia had both forgotten to divide that up. Damn, no wonder he hadn't been able to find a towel last night.

He added towels to his mental list.

Expecting to see the guy from British Gas, Lestrade's smile of welcome congealed when he saw who stood on his doorstep.

There weren't many people who could wear a suit the colour of pale pond-scum and get away with it but Mycroft Holmes carried it off with aplomb.

"I am aware that you are on leave," began Mycroft.

"But you're going to disturb me anyway."

"It would be helpful if we could have a chat."

"Helpful to who?"

"Me, primarily. I wonder if we might talk in the warm."

"Then we'd best sit in your car. I'm presuming that black luxury job is yours? I've no heating. I only moved in yesterday. I was hoping you were British Gas."

"I seem doomed to disappoint you. My car it is."

Mycroft turned away and tackled the tight curve of concrete steps which led up to the street, his pace slower than he would have liked because his knee was still giving him some discomfort after a night spent sitting at a conference table.

"You should take up the stage," said an irritable voice behind him.

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft turned, twisted his knee and hissed as he clutched the railing to maintain his balance.

"Hang on," said Lestrade in a different tone, when he realised there was nothing staged about the other man's discomfort. "If you fall down those stairs and break anything I'll probably end up in the Tower. You'd best come in after all."

"Your concern is touching." Mycroft ignored the hand held out to him and made it back down the steps with a combination of determination, vanity and upper body strength he hadn't been aware he possessed. All his pen-pushing was obviously paying off.

"You haven't seen the inside of the flat," said Lestrade dryly as he closed the door behind them, before leading the way down the wide hall. The tiles had come up better than he expected, he mused as he gestured for Mycroft to head into the living room.

"I'd say make yourself comfortable but..."

Mycroft studied the various layers of wallpaper revealed; some of the colour choices were startling. He glanced at Lestrade.

"I'm quite partial to the black paper with those pink - I'm not sure what flowers they're supposed to be," offered Lestrade.

"Nothing I recall seeing in nature. Astonishing patterns. I'm struck by the dark crimson with... Are they supposed to be Parisian scenes?"

"Not as I remember Paris," said Lestrade, thawing despite himself.

"Once the paper is removed, this room will shine. It has excellent proportions and natural light."

"The bedroom and bathroom are a good size too." The pride of new ownership blossoming, Lestrade found himself showing Mycroft round.

"This was an excellent find, I congratulate you." The cold beginning to bite, Mycroft buttoned his overcoat and tucked his neck as far as it would go into his cashmere scarf. He glanced at Lestrade and was again struck by the unfairness of life. Unshaved, with his beginning to grey hair tufting in all directions and dressed in paint-splattered clothing, Lestrade was still a highly attractive man, while _his_ stubble just made him look as if he should be sleeping on a park bench.

"You timed your visit well. The furniture arrived just before you did. Sit, elevate your leg. I'll make tea. Ah, no milk," discovered Lestrade. "I'll nip down to the corner shop."

A flicker of surprise escaped Mycroft. "Are you in the habit of abandoning your home to a stranger?"

"Oh, I feel as if we're old friends by now," said Lestrade, an edge to his smile. "Have you seen my wallet?"

Mycroft took out his own and extracted a couple of notes.

"Milk a bit pricey in your neck of the woods?" said Lestrade, as he eyed the two fifty pound notes being extended to him.

"I wouldn't know. I keep this well stocked in case I encounter Sherlock. He forgot to pick my pocket yesterday."

"You must be so proud." Lestrade dropped the money back in the general direction of Mycroft's lap and headed for his bedroom, returning a few seconds later with his wallet. "Feel free to spy. Well, of course you do. If British Gas turn up, point them in the direction of the boiler. Oh, hang on a tick." He headed into the kitchen and when he came back tossed something over. "To put on your knee."

Mycroft only just caught the packet of frozen peas in time.

"In lieu of an ice-pack," Lestrade explained.

Finding this place even colder than Sherlock's bedsit, Mycroft nodded his thanks.

Lestrade left without another word.

Mycroft ignored Lestrade's advice about his leg and got up to take advantage of Lestrade's offer to spy. Reports were all very well but he wanted to learn all he could of his unwilling host - and the man who would have responsibility for Sherlock's safety.

Second-hand furniture, the label of the charity shop clearly visible, but solidly made with simple, pleasing lines. There were few personal possessions except for the open boxes of books: non-fiction, mainly concerning the history of London. The bedroom contained a wooden bed-frame, waiting to be put together, a new sprung mattress and a sleeping bag. The clothes hanging from some Heath Robinson device were mid-to-low range, more casual than not. Colours monochrome. Black boxers, black socks. An adventurous dresser then... No sports equipment. No musical instruments. A laptop, three to four years old so wouldn't last much longer. CDs. Mycroft frowned, none of the names meaning anything to him. Basic utensils in the kitchen. Plenty of cleaning products. Food cupboards sparsely filled with cheap staples like pasta and rice. Fridge empty, except for some unpleasant looking cheddar cheese and a few vegetables. Freezer. Duly reminded, he replaced the pack of peas.

Lestrade's finances were stretched to their limit by his mortgage and he had no car or other form of transport. Plus he was in the middle of a divorce. And yet his protective instincts remained undimmed: for Sherlock, even for himself.

"I hope I gave you enough time?" said Lestrade, on his return.

"Why the history of London?" asked Mycroft mildly, declining the bait.

"I'm a Londoner. Its history incorporates a lot of subjects. I don't read much - well, any really, fiction.

"I see you took my advice about elevating your leg," added Lestrade dryly.

Mycroft shrugged that irrelevance aside but he was leaning a little more heavily on his umbrella as he crossed the room.

"You should use a cane, it would give better support," said Lestrade, frowning as he noted Mycroft's halting gait.

In a heartbeat Mycroft's relaxed expression changed to one of prissy containment. "I hardly think - "

"It's any of my business," anticipated Lestrade without resentment. "You're right, of course. How do you take your tea?"

"No milk or sugar, thank you." Mycroft propped a shoulder against the kitchen doorway. "I apologise. I was in a traffic accident a few months ago - due entirely to my inattention. Which makes it a touchy subject for me. A cane would occasion all kinds of tedious questions. And there are times when its preferable to show no signs of weakness. The knee is much better than it was but I tripped and fell yesterday."

Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "Did Sherlock - ?"

"What? Good Heavens, no. Sherlock might be prone to violence towards himself but never to others."

"So the umbrella... May I ask you something?"

Mycroft looked wary. "I can't guarantee I'll be able to answer you."

"I'm not interested in state secrets."

Lestrade's tone was so casually dismissive that Mycroft gave an involuntary smile.

"Only... And I know you're going to laugh at me but... Is that a sword stick?" Lestrade asked in a rush, nodding to the umbrella.

That the last question he had expected to hear, a splutter of amusement escaped Mycroft's controls before he firmed his twitching mouth.

Lestrade gave him a look of slightly embarrassed resignation. "I knew it."

"How I wish it was," Mycroft said at last. "I've a fondness for Basil Rathbone films. Well, for those with sword fights. Before my accident I was taking instruction in learning to fence but I fear I have no aptitude, natural or otherwise. And, apparently, two left feet.

"I'm afraid this - " he raised the umbrella with care, mindful of the small space " - is simply an umbrella - and an unobtrusive aide if my leg is giving difficulty."

"Pity. No gadgets at all?"

Mycroft came close to making something up just to take away Lestrade's look of disappointment. There was something almost boyish about his enthusiasm, without any of the tedious immaturity which could accompany it.

"I'm merely - "

" - a cog in the Department of Transport." Lestrade didn't bother to hide his disbelief.

"Ah. I believe that ship may have sailed," conceded Mycroft.

"So... An Aston Martin?"

"Oh, Good Lord, no. And before you ask, I loathe martinis, let alone heavily diluted ones full of slush. I'm a pen pusher, nothing more."

"You're a sad disappointment, that's what you are." Lestrade dried the mugs and spoons he had rinsed, his half-smile warm and uncomplicated.

"Not the first time I've been told that," Mycroft assured him.

This time Lestrade's grin lit his entire face. "It takes a brave man to admit that. Still, at least you're armed. An ankle holster, isn't it?"

Mycroft tensed slightly, his expression decidedly frosty.

"You do know how to use it?" pursued Lestrade as he poured hot water over tea bags.

The report on Lestrade had made clear his dislike of guns - and lack of aptitude on the range. Not that he would be required to use one in the normal course of events. Mycroft contented himself with giving the other man a very hard stare.

"It must be nice to have such a long nose," continued Lestrade, on the basis that if he was going down, he would go down fighting.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It gives you so much more to look down. Should you have told me what you have?"

"You're a reasonably intelligent man - "

"Damned with faint praise."

"It seemed likely you would have worked it out by now. While I maintain a low public profile, it's impossible to go completely beneath the radar."

"Instead of trying to bully me into working with your brother why didn't you try to bribe me?" enquired Lestrade, fishing out soggy teabags and dropping them into a carrier bag on the draining board of the ancient sink unit.

"Why would I want a man who can be bought?"

"So not because it would be morally wrong?"

"Morals?" The ginger eyebrows rose in exaggerated surprise. "My dear Detective Inspector. Moral judgments from civil servants! The world as we know it would collapse.

"I'm sorry I was out of the office when you called the Department of Transport," Mycroft added urbanely, in a ruthless display of power. He tried to avoid inhaling the odour of the tea that had been presented to him and followed Lestrade into the sitting room.

"I suppose you have to work some time," said Lestrade, disdaining pretence. Besides, Julia had told him he was a terrible liar. As he had expected, Mycroft was quick to pick up on the inference.

"Am I overstaying my welcome?"

The unexpected, sardonic note in that soft, precise voice, the face now blank of all expression, gave Lestrade pause. But he said only: "Drink your tea before it gets cold."

Mycroft sipped the tea made for him and discovered it bore no resemblance to one of the delicate blends to which he was accustomed. The brew tasted unpleasantly acidic, the tannin making the roof of his mouth prickle. The cheap mug was thick and clumsy, with a handle that owed more to form than function. But he was the guest of a man from whom he needed a favour, so he drank it with every appearance of enjoyment.

"Why would the AC want to do you a favour?" asked Lestrade. He began to strip the wall closest to where Mycroft sat, the other man looking as out of place as Siamese cat in a puddle of slurry.

"The milk of human kindness not an option? To be frank - please don't snort like that, you might give me the benefit of the doubt - I know of no criminal behaviour on his part." He sustained a suspicious look from Lestrade without difficulty.

"OK."

"You don't sound convinced."

"Odd that."

"I appreciate your difficulty but how can I prove a negative?"

"It would hardly be in the public interest to have a bent senior officer."

"Not necessarily true."

"Not helping," Lestrade pointed out in exasperation, before he rubbed his chin. "You're right, of course. I've no way of investigating him without being caught. Whether he's clean or not I'd be in a shit load of trouble and while it might not be a glittering career, it's the only one I've got."

It was an impressive speech. Mycroft even believed some of it, unfortunately not the important part. He gave a faint sigh.

"I've known Peter since my early twenties," he offered, because there were times when it was simply less trouble to tell the truth.

"How well did you know him?"

"Very, in the biblical sense. 'Lovers' suggests a relationship which didn't

exist. We had sex several times - it wasn't memorable enough to remember the

exact number, and parted without trauma. We've met at several functions since. I simply called and asked him for a favour. He had no problem granting it, so long as there was nothing to link him to the decision."

"I'd heard he was a gutless wonder," muttered Lestrade, before he gave Mycroft a speculative look.

To Mycroft's mild disappointment it wasn't the kind of speculation he had been hoping for, although taking Sherlock's detective as a lover would be far too complicated for what would only be a week or two of pleasure.

And he had no doubt it be would a pleasure, he thought, as he watched Lestrade's denim clad backside flex and twitch as he stretched from where he was precariously balanced on an unstable chair.

"So the AC isn't corrupt," said Lestrade, shreds of damp paper cascading down as he work. He spat out a small piece, squinting to avoid getting any in his eyes.

Safety goggles. Step-ladder. The shopping list was getting longer by the minute.

"I have no reason to believe otherwise," said Mycroft. "He is, however, firmly in the closet and has been for years. I've never approved of outing for the sake of it."

"Nor me," said Lestrade. As he turned on the chair seat small flakes of paper were caught in his hair.

It seemed symbolic, thought Mycroft, Lestrade stripping back his personal life. At least he _had_ a personal life...

"His secret's safe with me," added Lestrade.

Mycroft gave him a look of surprise. "I never doubted it."

"Oh." Disconcerted, even a little embarrassed, Lestrade jumped down from the chair to put more water on to boil.

"If Sherlock cleans up his act, I'll give it a go," he said, a moment later, his back to Mycroft.

Mycroft gave a small, secret smile. "Thank you."

Objective achieved, he rose to take his leave just as his phone rang.

"Forgive me, I must take this call, Is there somewhere private - ?"

Lestrade gestured to his bedroom.

Mycroft emerged after twenty minutes, his expression grim. "I need to ask another favour of you and I don't have time for subtlety or finesse..."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5: HIDDEN STRINGS

When Lestrade opened his front door and saw Detective Chief Superintendent Robinson standing on the step he realised Mycroft's sphere of influence stretched far beyond some youthful affair with an Assistant Commissioner.

"Well, are you going to invite me in?" demanded Robinson, his tone indicating his unhappiness at being used as an errand boy. Two large boxes of files were at his feet.

"Sir."

By the time Lestrade had taken in the second box, Robinson was occupying more than his fair share of the sofa.

"You haven't got time to fanny around making coffee," he said, before Lestrade could open his mouth. "As you know, you're being seconded by some hush-bloody-hush unit to offer instruction on interrogation techniques. Because your pay won't be coming out of our budget, and they're paying for an extra Sergeant while you're away, the Commissioner decided he was in favour of the idea. You've got a longish trip ahead of you so you'd best get packing. It sounds as if you could be gone for up to a month."

"Yes, sir." By the fact Robinson _was_ acting as messenger boy it was odds on whether he'd pissed off the Assistant Commissioner, Mycroft, or both. "I''m almost ready. Just waiting for my house-sitter to arrive so the central heating can be fixed. Um, where am I going?"

"Need to know apparently. And I don't fall within that category," Robinson added acidly. "Any questions?"

There was no tactful way to tell a senior officer he was an idiot. "No, sir," sighed Lestrade, wondering just how he'd been talked into this scheme in the first place.

Still, wherever he went, it would have to be warmer than the flat.

The nondescript man who collected him wasn't the talkative type.

Lestrade didn't bother asking where they were going but from the time the journey took and the two changes of transport, he presumed the wilds of Scotland - which as far as he was concerned was anywhere north of Edinburgh. But at least it gave him the chance to catch up on some sleep. The final leg was in a plane so small he thought it must have been built from a kit.

His new sheepdogs were both young, with an air of daunting competence, but despite the time he had spent in their company, Lestrade would have been hard-pressed to describe either of them. Which made him think they must work for Mycroft.

He had never flown in such a small aircraft before; because the first flight, on what he called 'a proper plane', had been decidedly bumpy, he declined food, on the grounds better safe than sorry.

It was dark when they finally arrived, by which time his stomach thought his throat must be cut. Stiff after so much sitting on cramped seats, he disembarked slowly, walked a few paces away from the plane and turned to take in his surroundings. He could smell and hear the sea close by. The air was cold but sweet, piercing lungs used to the chewy London air. Once away from the rudimentary lights bordering the airstrip Lestrade became aware of just how dark it was; darker than he had ever known.

The night sky was amazing. Rapt, he stared upwards, smiling with wonder. He'd heard about light pollution in the south, but never really understood what it meant in practical terms. He'd never seen that many stars in his life.

His two escorts appeared out of the darkness, effortlessly taking charge of his luggage.

"There are a couple of boxes of files, plus another of books," said Lestrade, as one of them fastened the door of the plane.

"Sorry, sir. This is all that came aboard when you changed planes," said the younger man, who seemed to be in charge.

Lestrade straightened from his relaxed slouch. "So there are confidential police files lost where exactly?" he asked, a bite to his usual warm voice.

"I'll find out immediately, sir."

"You do that. I was assured all the luggage was being taken care of."

"Yes, sir," said the man woodenly. "Sorry, sir."

Lestrade sighed, then grimaced. "I may have over-reacted a little. Put it down to low blood sugar and a long day. But I would like to be certain those files aren't likely to fall into public hands."

"If you'll excuse me, sir."

It was then that Lestrade realised the second man had been on the phone.

"The boxes containing the files have been located. Unfortunately they were sent to a second, secure destination. The weather's closing in but as soon as it clears they'll be forwarded here."

"Fine. Thanks. And for the safe flight." He allowed himself to be shepherded away from the airstrip and over some tussocky grass, the ground so spongy he presumed there must have been a lot of rain recently.

"Our pleasure, sir. This is your quarters. The kitchen has the basics, fresh supplies will be coming in as soon as the weather clears. I believe you'll be quite comfortable. If there's anything you need, just let me know."

"And where will you be?" asked Lestrade.

"Elsewhere, sir."

"Oh, bloody hell," muttered Lestrade, impatient with this nonsense. What he could see of the single storey building looked ugly enough to make an architect cry. "No point asking where I am, I suppose?"

"None, sir."

"Wonderful. Have a safe trip." He remained where he was as he watched them leave, wishing he'd had the forethought to bring cigarettes.

Only when the plane took off did he appreciate just how short the air strip was; he felt grateful he hadn't known that beforehand. About to call his house-sitter to see if British Gas had turned up, Lestrade discovered his mobile phone was missing. Together with the bag containing his laptop. As it had begun to rain, he entered the glorified hut that was to be his home.

"Well don't just stand there. Shut the door," ordered Sherlock, from where he sat huddled over a scrubbed pine table, busy with a small skeleton.

"I'm going to kill that brother of yours," announced Lestrade, as he did as he was told.

"You might want to keep that thought to yourself. Mycroft's lackeys seem lacking in the humour department," said Sherlock sulkily. He looked dreadful.

"Find your stash, did they?"

Sherlock turned his back on him with an offended huffing sound.

"Then I'll just check to make sure they didn't miss anything. This way."

"What?"

"You don't seriously imagine I'm going to take your word for it that you're not carrying?" said Lestrade. "First I'm going to search you. Then this room, your room, the bathroom - in fact every room in this...hut."

"All right, all right. They got everything. Check all you want."

"I intend to."

"Then tea. Can you cook?"

"That's my room," Sherlock waved vaguely in the direction of the middle door. "May I go now?" He pulled his coat tighter around himself in a histrionic show of wounded innocence.

"Oh, don't give me that look," said Lestrade, who had conducted the search as matter of factly as he know how in order to make it easier for them both. "There's no point starting this if you're not serious about giving up."

"Don't go sniffing any underwear."

"I'll try and resist temptation," Lestrade said dryly.

He opened the door, saw the small, cell-like room and stopped dead. The institutional ice-blue paint on the walls, the grey lino on the floor, single, grey metal frame bed, corners tucked and folded with military precision were all dreadfully familiar.

"_I want to be able to bounce a 10p piece on that bed, boy._"

His face set as he crammed away the unwanted memories, Lestrade quickly searched Sherlock's room, then the other two and the bathroom. Either Sherlock was clean, or he'd found a hiding place outside.

"Are you going to sit there all night?" asked Sherlock abruptly.

Lestrade looked up from his book. "Why would you care?"

"Because I want some peace and quiet."

"You had it until you started talking," Lestrade pointed out. It wasn't strictly true. The wind had got up just before midnight and it was now raining so hard that it sounded as if someone was throwing buckets of water at the windows.

Sherlock gave him an intent look which Lestrade was too preoccupied to notice.

"If you're hoping to have sex with me, you'll be disappointed. I don't - "

"I'm not surprised. Heroin tends to deflate most pretensions. And even if it didn't, I wouldn't be interested."

"Really?" Sherlock studied him for a moment. "You're not bisexual?"

"What I am is not interested in having sex with you."

"Is it Mycroft?"

"_What_?" Aware that he sounded far too defensive, Lestrade forced himself to relax.

"You think he'd object if you slept with me. You couldn't be more wrong. He'd be relieved to know I'd finally had sex."

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, I'm sure your sex life, or its lack, is fascinating to you. To me, not so much. I'm still waiting for my divorce to be finalised. I've had my leave ruined. I've got a total stranger house-sitting at my flat to oversee the installation of a new central heating system that will totally fuck up my budget - and worse, I'm being used to babysit a junkie."

To his surprise Sherlock was watching him with a trace of amusement. "Not a volunteer then."

"I was conned," said Lestrade bitterly. "By your lying weasel of a brother."

"He'd kill to be that sinuous. What lie?"

"Apart from his bad knee playing him up every time I looked like not following his script, you mean?" When he hadn't been sleeping on the journey Lestrade had had plenty of time to think. Now he was embarrassed by how used he felt. He'd trusted Mycroft - in a manner of speaking. He'd been appallingly easy to talk to, as if they'd known one another for years. There again, persuading people to talk was something they both did for a living. He just hadn't been prepared to be subjected to such subtle techniques.

"Mycroft was hit by a motorcycle last November," Sherlock said into the silence. "I only found out the day before yesterday, which is why I haven't had a chance to look at his medical records yet. But I think it must have been bad. After you left the bedsit I lost my temper with him - nothing new there - and kicked a chair in front of him. He tripped, landed on his knee. There was nothing faked about the level of pain he experienced. Of course, he's always had two left feet."

"So he said," said Lestrade absently, pushing his copy of Mayhew to one side. "He also said you'd never hurt anyone."

"He wouldn't count himself."

"Why not?"

"He never has."

"And naturally you take advantage."

"I need any I can get with him."

Lestrade was still absorbing the fact that his first instinct to trust Mycroft had been right. He hadn't lied - well, not about his knee.

"It must be a while since he's been able to fence then but I still envy him those lessons."

"Mycroft told you about the fencing and those ridiculous films?"

Arrested by an odd note in Sherlock's voice, Lestrade looked up to find himself pinned by those disconcerting eyes. "Why wouldn't he?"

"No reason." shrugged Sherlock immediately. "Is there any more tea?"

"You know where the kitchen is as well as I do. I'll have another if you're making it."

Sherlock got up with a poor grace but produced what looked as if it should be a palatable mug of tea.

"OK, what have you put in it?" enquired Lestrade, just as he had been about to take the first sip.

"Nothing. _Nothing_!" repeated Sherlock indignantly. "Oh, for - " He snatched the mug from Lestrade, took a healthy swig and pulled a face. "Ugh! Sugar."

Lestrade relieved him of the mug. "Put my paranoia down to spending too much time with your brother."

"He has that effect on everyone. He's been the bane of my existence. My arch-enemy since the day I was born. Telling me what to do and when and how and why can't I get a job, settle down, finish my degree - tricky after I got sent down. 'Sherlock, really', Sherlock mimicked, in a falsetto that, while nothing like, still caught the rhythm of Mycroft's voice. "He's always worrying about me."

Lestrade felt an unexpected pang of sympathy for Mycroft. He wrapped his cold hands around the mug to warm them and pulled his book back towards him.

"Why would you let a stranger house-sit for you?" asked Sherlock before Lestrade had had the chance to read more than a paragraph.

Lestrade had the strong suspicion it was more to pass the time than any real interest.

"Mycroft arranged it."

"Then it's probably either Len, or Annie - his wife. They've been with the family ever since I can remember and working for Mycroft since he was sixteen."

"_Sixteen_?"

"When he went up to King's to read Classics."

"What about you?"

"He took me with him, of course," said Sherlock impatiently. "If he's asked Len to do that for you, then he really trusts you because Len and Annie are..."

"Family?"

"Of course they're not family. Weren't you listening?"

"Never mind," said Lestrade with resignation. "So Len and Annie looked after you when you were at Cambridge."

"Up at Cambridge," corrected Sherlock. "No, Mycroft did. I do wish you'd pay attention, it's so boring having to keep repeating things."

"But your brother was only sixteen himself."

"So?" Sherlock's expression was a mixture of puzzlement and impatience.

"So who looked after him?"

"Annie cooked and saw to the house, Len drove, shopped, took me to and from school. And then Mycroft was there."

"Your brother was still a child himself," protested Lestrade.

Sherlock gave him a curious look. "Mycroft's never been a child. What?"

"Nothing," said Lestrade. "How do we switch up the central heating?" he added, aware of how cold it was getting.

"This is it."

"Wonderful. The stock of food isn't exactly exciting either. There's no fruit, veg, cheese, eggs, meat, fish and not much milk. If the weather doesn't clear..."

"Then you should go to bed."

"What about you?" asked Lestrade, reluctant to leave him.

"I don't sleep much."

While the last thing Lestrade wanted was to shut himself in that small cell-like room, there were only armchairs in the room that combined the functions of kitchen, dining and living facilities. No phone, radio, TV or computer. Nothing except Sherlock. It occurred to him that if he didn't sleep he would probably end up killing the younger man.

"Will you be OK?" he asked.

"Bored."

"Me, too."

"I'm still not having sex with you," said Sherlock, but when he looked up a faint grin of some charm was visible before he went back to whatever it was he was doing, dismissing everything else from his thoughts.

The next day the wind felt as if it was threatening the roof of their shelter. It belatedly occurred to Lestrade, who had not enjoyed a good night, that while he had been told to ask for anything he wanted, he had no way of doing that.

"Phone? Of course they didn't leave me with a phone," said Sherlock. "If they'd left me a phone do you think I'd still be here?"

"You could always walk."

"Into the sea?"

Shocked, Lestrade stared at him.

"Relax," drawled Sherlock, amused. "I only meant that we're surrounded by it. This island isn't large. We seem to be the only inhabitants. If the food runs out before supplies get here we'll just have to eat each other."

"There's not enough meat on you to feed a sparrow. Which reminds me, it's your turn to make the tea."

"Don't want any."

"Suit yourself." Lestrade got up, made some for himself and sat back opposite Sherlock, drinking it with every appearance of enjoyment.

By the fourth day Lestrade, whose temper was shortened by the fact he was sleeping badly, spent his waking hours planning ways to murder Sherlock, who alternated between whiney, sullen and rude.

Lestrade stayed in bed on the fifth day, when he realised the wind _still_ hadn't let up, in the hope of avoiding Sherlock. The need to pee - and hunger - got him up just after nine. Couldn't even manage a decent rebellion, he mocked himself, as he quickly showered. The temperature in this place was always the wrong side of comfortable.

He was pulling on his second sweatshirt as he entered the living area.

"Oh good! I thought I was going to have to make tea. This place is driving me insane!" Sherlock launched to his feet, energy pouring from him as he began to pace.

"And yet you hide it so well," murmured Lestrade. He wondered what would happen if he socked the brother of a secret squirrel. With some resignation he took out the container of oats.

"This place is...is..." Sherlock flung out his arms.

"As soon as the weather clears they'll arrive with food. You tell them you want to go home - then I can. Once a junkie, always a junkie." Lestrade began to stir the porridge in a figure of eight movement.

"Oh, please. Stop trying to play me."

"I wouldn't waste my time," said Lestrade in the same tightly controlled voice. "You won't make it. Rich kids like you haven't got the guts. If your bloody brother employed vaguely competent people we'd at least have the books and cold cases to go through."

Sherlock slid next to him. "What cold cases?"

"Shift, I need to get to that cupboard. Cases that have remained unsolved and for which we don't have any, or sufficient, DNA." Lestrade took down two bowls and dolloped portions of porridge into each. "We've finished the last of the milk. Pick up the honey, will you. If you want so much as a sniff at a case you'll stop moaning, start eating properly at meal times and go outside for at least an hour a day."

"We'd get blown away," protested Sherlock.

"It's invigorating now it's stopped raining. There's all kinds of interesting stuff being thrown up on the shore. Eat. It'll put hairs on your chest."

Sherlock looked puzzled. "Why would I want hair on my chest?"

"Never mind," sighed Lestrade, sitting down opposite him.

"You were yelling your head off again last night. You woke me up," said Sherlock, just as Lestrade was about to eat his first mouthful.

Lestrade set down his spoon. "Life's a bitch," he muttered, ducking his head with embarrassment.

"I'm entitled to nightmares, I'm a smackhead."

"Ex-smackhead."

"We'll see. What's your excuse for bad dreams?" demanded Sherlock as he sat dripping porridge from spoon to bowl without attempting to eat any.

"Me? I'm just an inadequate human being. Maybe your brother will punish me by letting me go home." Lestrade was too busy pushing porridge around his own bowl to notice the sharp look Sherlock gave him.

"You do realise how much he must trust you?"

"Should I be flattered?" Lestrade pushed away his bowl. "I miss fresh fruit. And smog. Sirens. Dog's barking. People killing one another. I want to go home."

"Stop whining," said Sherlock but he looked amused. "If you think Mycroft trusts anyone easily you haven't been paying attention. What did he offer you to come here to babysit me?"

"His body."

"Who'd want that? Money? Promotion?"

"Got it in two."

"Were you tempted?"

"Well, I've always had a thing for long legs and freckles. Is he a good kisser?"

"Oh, delete," moaned Sherlock with an exaggerated shudder. "Enough. See, I'm eating this wretched slop."

Lestrade gave a shit-eating grin. "That's the way. What did your brother do that so pissed you off? Except be born first."

"What would you know about it?"

"Absolutely nothing. As far as I'm aware, I'm an only child."

"How can you not know?" said Sherlock impatiently.

"You were at the back of the queue when they were handing out tact and empathy, weren't you?"

"What are you talking about?" His tone scathing, Sherlock shook his head. "Never mind, it won't be important."

"Only to me," agreed Lestrade. "Look, it's all right to be dickhead to me but if you're serious about wanting a job as a consulting detective you've got to try to get on with people. I can't have you insulting my team all the time. Apart from anything else, it's had for morale. But you won't be seeing them for a while You've got a lot of reading and inwardly digesting to do. If your damn brother will get his finger out and the books and files here. You'll be tested on them."

"You're serious?"

"Are you? This is people's lives. You'll treat them with respect - or pretend to care."

"Don't bother me with inessentials. I don't care about people," Sherlock said with disdain.

"Then you'll either be kept away from them or you'll need to fake it. Don't pull a face, you're putting me off my breakfast. There are a number of ways of obtaining information from people, depending who you're talking to."

"What would you use on me?"

"Your vanity about your abilities," said Lestrade promptly.

Sherlock thought about it. "Not bad. What would you use on Mycroft?"

"A knee in the balls."

"You really don't want to be here, do you."

"Sherlock, your brother asks for favours the way Marlon Brando - "

"Who?"

"_The Godfather_."

"Who?"

"You don't watch films?"

"Why would I?"

It took Lestrade a moment to realise Sherlock was serious. "OK, forget films and eat. No, I don't want to be here. New flat, leave, central heating, remember?"

"Boring," said Sherlock, swallowing a mouthful of porridge with a grimace of horrendous proportions.

"To you maybe. This," Lestrade gestured between them, "this is boring. It's cold, blowing a gale, the food is dire and you have absolutely no interest in doing anything but whine. So no, I don't want to be here. Your bloody brother didn't give me a choice," he added with remembered grievance.

"What did he do?" asked Sherlock, interested.

"He asked me to do him a favour. And I bloody fell for it."

"I told you to be careful of him."

"No you didn't."

"Sorry." Sherlock licked clean his spoon.

"Sherlock." Lestrade waited until he looked up before flicking the contents of his spoon at him.

"Why - Why would you do that?" spluttered Sherlock, shaking his head. Flecks of porridge flew out of his hair.

"Because I can. Be grateful it wasn't the saucepan." But Lestrade smiled when he said it. "Look, I know we haven't got any books but I can start you on the rules of evidence pertaining to a crime scene. If you want."

"Why didn't you say so before. But first I need to shower. Again. And it's cold." The tip of his nose pink, oatmeal caught in his hair, Sherlock looked vaguely pathetic.

"I'll make you some tea when you're done," promised Lestrade weakly.

To his surprise, Lestrade quite enjoyed coaching Sherlock on police procedure. It went without saying that Sherlock was a quick study, despite his often voiced boredom with the entire subject.

"Until you understand what you can and can't do on a crime scene and when you _have_ to listen to what you're being told you'll be going nowhere near one. Get on with it. I'll make you toast," added Lestrade, who wasn't too proud to resort to bribery. It had the added bonus of getting Sherlock to eat something.

At least he was eating twice a day now and walking - once Lestrade thought to use the flotsam and jetsam washed up on the beach as research material. The price was a number of smelly experiments, although after a lengthy 'discussion' Sherlock agreed not to use any more of Lestrade's belongings.

"I don't know why you're so angry," muttered Sherlock sulkily, as he picked at a scab on his hand.

"I'm angry because I can't abide the waste of talent. You're in your mid-twenties, rich when compared to most of the population, with a brother who wields God only knows what power. You have a mind that... I don't pretend to understand how your mind works but I know a thing of beauty when I see it in action. And you cripple it with crap bought on the street."

"I know," said Sherlock, studying the table top.

"What?"

"Well, come on, Lestrade. Why else do you think I agreed to this?"

"You _agreed_?"

"Of course. You don't think Mycroft kidnapped me, did you?"

"No, that would just be me," sighed Lestrade, before he gave Sherlock a look of approval. "But well done."

"Oh, please," drawled Sherlock. "Could you be more condescending." But he looked pleased, all the same, as if praise hadn't played a large part in his life.

"So why don't you know if you're an only child?" asked Sherlock out of the blue.

"You must be bored," said Lestrade, amused.

"I am," said Sherlock frankly. "And while I don't suppose that what you'll have to say will change that, I'm trying to become a people person." He looked affronted when Lestrade got a severe case of the giggles.

"Sorry," said Lestrade, without real contrition. "OK, the life and times of me. Mum was a junkie. She OD when I was six. I went into care, where I stayed, apart from a couple of fosterings that didn't take. I've no idea who my dad was. So no, I don't have a clue what it's like to have money I haven't earned, or a brother who might be an irritating git but who goes to some time and trouble to try and look out for me. If your mum didn't breast feed you, or your dad was never around, get over it. You're a man, try acting like one instead of a spoilt brat."

Sherlock sat back on his chair to eye Lestrade thoughtfully. "What are you so angry about?"

"No sympathetic words for my sad childhood?" mocked Lestrade.

"Why would I waste my time? You're reasonably intelligent. Healthy. You hold down a job of some responsibility - even if you do seem to miss half of what goes on in front of you. You've overcome whatever difficulties you faced with some grace. What would I sympathize for?"

Lestrade gave a wry grin. "Only you would insult me with a compliment."

Sherlock blinked. "What compliment?"

"Never mind," sighed Lestrade.

"Are you thinking up new ways to torture me?" asked Sherlock, as he entered the living space to find Lestrade staring into the middle distance.

"Just reflecting on my life only a few short days ago. No Holmes brothers. A steady eight to eight job, except for the days when it was longer..."

"Boring."

To his dismay, Lestrade realised Sherlock might have a point. He'd been sliding into a rut. And despite everything, he hadn't missed Julia once. To his dismay he was spending more time than was good for anyone thinking about Mycroft Holmes. And there lay madness. He was too powerful, too manipulative, too clever, Sherlock's brother... And yet with one quirk of that long mouth...

"If we're going to be stuck here for much longer I may end up taking you up on your suggestion," he said mischievously.

"What sug - ? Oh. Don't be ridiculous," dismissed Sherlock. "You're not remotely interested in me. But masturbate in your room, not the shower."

"I'll have a wank when and where I choose! Oh, God," Lestrade groaned. "Thanks to you I'm reverting to a thirteen-year-old and we've only been here nine days!"

"Why's that my fault?"

"How long have you got?" returned Lestrade, before he shrugged and grinned. "Ignore me. I'm probably having my mid-life crisis a bit early."

"Wouldn't that depend on how long you're expecting to live?"

Lestrade dropped the tea towel over Sherlock's head and started to fantasise about ways to murder Mycroft Holmes.


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX: RELAXING THE STRINGS

For a moment Lestrade couldn't place where he was; the wind must have dropped in the night and he had overslept for so long that the sun was out and shining straight into his room. The improvement in the weather meant the plane should be able to land with relief rations - and enough files and books to keep Sherlock's mind ocupied, which might just stop him from being murdered, he mused.

Sherlock was a piece of work. How anyone could be so irritating yet oddly... Likeable wasn't it, because there were times when he was anything but. That said, he wasn't boring, although he could have done without Sherlock pinching the last dry towel for his experiments. Duly reminded, Lestrade took a couple of extra tee shirts into the bathroom, so he would have something with which to dry himself.

Sherlock gave the dish of porridge a pained look. "Lestrade..."

"I know, I'm sick of it, too. But you need to eat - I need you to eat. And if I can put up with it, you can. You've been doing so well. And the books should be here today."

"Along with the cold case files," said Sherlock, absent-mindedly eating a mouthful of porridge with no more than a shudder.

He must have been a nightmare to feed as a kid, mused Lestrade. With that thought in mind, he slyly began to offer teasers about the cold cases - enough to see Sherlock through the entire bowl.

"I'm off out to enjoy the sunshine, while we've got some. Want to come?"

Lestrade just grinned when Sherlock spared him a withering glance.

Lestrade had become so used to being wind-lashed that at first it felt positively balmy out. The hut was situated on the highest point on the island, approximately fifty feet above sea level. Today the small wind turbine was almost motionless and he hoped it didn't mean they would lose power. Sitting in the dark with a bored Sherlock didn't bear thinking about.

Even with the sun out it was cold but the piercingly sweet air, the quality of the light and the peace made up for it; the only sound was the gentle rhythm of the incoming tide. Not so much as one seagull, never mind anything else.

Lestrade set off on yet another circuit of the island in the hope he would sleep soundly tonight and not disturb Sherlock again. Not that Sherlock had said anything else; those slanting, side-on looks when Sherlock thought he wouldn't notice were bad enough.

A wave of embarrassed heat ran over Lestrade when it suddenly occurred to him that he might have been talking in his sleep. Not that he did, usually. The divorce - his failure - must have shaken him more than he'd realised. And then to find such a reminder of the worst time of his life.

After completing several more circuits he heard the sound of an engine. By the time he jogged back to the air strip a small plane was taxiing to a standstill. He headed over to it, squinting into the sun, which was blinding him. One hand shielding his eyes, his jaw dropped slightly when he realised who, hazed with sunlight, was walking towards him, complete with furled umbrella, which was slung at a jaunty angle over one elegantly tailored shoulder.

"I thought it was the hero who was supposed to walk into shot through beams of sunlight," said Lestrade by way of greeting.

"If only wishing made it so. Good afternoon, Detective Inspector."

"Afternoon. You're a sight for sore eyes. Well, the food is." Lestrade gestured to the boxes being unpacked from the plane by the two men who had brought him here. "It's brave of you to turn up in person," he added, wondering when Mycroft had last slept.

"I'm glad you appreciate that. I'm trusting it will stand me in good stead. I only heard you'd been cut off this morning," Mycroft admitted.

"Ten days," said Lestrade, milking the moment.

"I know," soothed Mycroft. "Has it been very bad?" He was all untrustworthy sympathy and smiling eyes.

Lestrade refused to be seduced by that quirking mouth and gave him a narrow eyed glare.

"Dear me, that bad. My poor Inspector. I confess, you don't look particularly rested." It was only when Mycroft's glance slid away again that Lestrade appreciated what - who - he was looking for.

"Sherlock's doing fine," offered Lestrade, answering the unspoken question. "Currently involved in an experiment that involves growing mould on all our towels."

"Ah. An apology isn't going to cover this, is it," recognised Mycroft wryly.

"Fresh fruit and everything else we've been missing might help. A bit." Busy checking the boxes unloaded so far, Lestrade paused to help himself to an apple. He tossed another to Mycroft, who caught it automatically, and then gave it a wary look, as if the sight was unfamiliar. By unspoken accord they set off in the direction of the hut.

Lestrade was disconcerted to realise how pleased he was to see Mycroft. And not just because he wasn't Sherlock. At first glance Mycroft looked like a hundred other blokes you might spot in the City, flitting from chauffeur driven car to merchant bank, or around the upper echelons of Westminster, or Whitehall. But like an iceberg there was the sense of so much more going on under that well-tailored surface and that was what he wanted: the real Mycroft Holmes, stripped bare of camouflage, of artifice - of control.

Mycroft gingerly took a bite of apple, as if expecting it to explode, discovered it was unexpectedly palatable and disposed of it with dispatch.

"I was hungry," he said a trifle defensively when he realised Lestrade was watching him.

"I could tell. Still, it looks as if you bought plenty with you."

"Only just. You have no idea how difficult it is to source so much fresh produce this far north."

It dawned on Lestrade that Mycroft was as pleased to see him as he was to see Mycroft. The knowledge made him a little giddy. He took a calming bite of his own apple.

"Did you have to stand in line in a supermarket to buy the stuff? I think not."

The door of the hut was flung open. "At last!" said Sherlock, erupting from the hut. "Are they the cold cases?" He ran over to the plane without appearing to notice his brother's presence.

"It's fortunate I wasn't expecting the fatted calf," said Mycroft ruefully.

"On the rations we've had to live on?"

Mycroft sadly shook his head. "There's no mercy in you, is there?"

"Ten days," Lestrade reminded him. "I don't know what you're complaining about, Sherlock's alive, isn't he?"

"Was it a near thing?"

All his stored up irritation falling away now he had an adult to talk to, Lestrade grinned. "Surprisingly, not really. Only petty stuff that bought out my inner thirteen year old. He's doing really well. The good sign was that he hasn't got a stash hidden somewhere."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "That didn't occur to me," he admitted.

"Well don't start worrying about it now. He's clean."

"Thank you. I have to say, from my brief view of him, he looks considerably more rested than you."

Lestrade shrugged that aside. "He seems to be sleeping well. He's been eating two meals a day, mainly because I've been using a combination of bullying and bribery. I even got him to take a walk - on the days it wasn't pelting it down. I didn't bring clothes for these conditions. So you weren't worried about us then?"

Mycroft palmed the back of his hair but the delaying tactic obviously failed to produce a convincing lie because he opted for the truth.

"I'm afraid I didn't have time to give you a thought until the ... Until this morning, when I was free to do so. Which is a great compliment to you." Because fatigue was making concentration difficult, the addition was a beat too late.

"Smooth save but I've had ten days to plot methods of murder," Lestrade said, a smile lurking round the corners of his mouth.

"I believe I should flee while I'm still capable of doing so. What method did you select?" added Mycroft, interested.

"Unfortunately it dawned on me that I'm not cut out to be a master criminal. Probably something lingering with boils."

"I've never been too sure what they are," confessed Mycroft, before he smothered a yawn. "My apologies. It must be the influx of fresh air."

"You've been stuck indoors all this time?"

Mycroft nodded.

"Then if your knee is up to it, do you feel like taking a walk in the sunshine? At the moment it's probably warmer outside than in." Lestrade nodded to the hut. "The heating is less than adequate."

By mutual accord they turned and headed over the grass to the dunes, with the sea beyond.

"You'd best choose a fast method of murder, Detective Inspector because I'm afraid this is only a flying visit." Mycroft's grimace apologised for the inadvertent pun.

"Call me Lestrade, it's quicker."

Mycroft gave him a curious look. "You don't use your first name?"

"I've never liked it much."

"Do you have any French relatives?" Mycroft asked idly.

Lestrade shrugged. "I've no idea. It might have been my father's name. It certainly wasn't my mother's."

"Ah, I forgot." Aware that he had just betrayed himself, Mycroft grimaced and braced himself for verbal fireworks.

"It's OK," said Lestrade easily. "It had already dawned on me that you must have checked me out before you entrusted me with Sherlock. You probably know more about me - my background - than I do."

Mycroft didn't insult him by attempting to deny it.

"Just how good are your files on me?" asked Lestrade.

Mycroft drew to a halt, studying Lestrade. "Do you really want to know?" he asked gently.

Disarmed by the trace of sympathy in the soft voice, Lestrade shook his head. "Best not. Except... Did you find out anything about my father?"

"No," said Mycroft simply.

Lestrade nodded. He could never decide if it was better to know or not. He could have been a supplier, a pimp - or worse. Or he could have been a john out for a cheap thrill. Better not to know really.

"You understood how I felt about this. It must be inconvenient in your line of work - being able to see both sides, I mean," said Lestrade awkwardly, wishing he'd never started this particular conversation.

"Don't give me too much credit," said Mycroft. "I had to accustom myself to the idea that my private life was - is - no longer private."

"Oh. I never thought of that. It makes sense. But it must be difficult for your husband. How does he cope with that? Sorry, none of my business," Lestrade realised, far too late.

"I don't have a husband, nor am I in a relationship - inexplicable as that may seem," Mycroft added dryly.

"But you're - you were - wearing a wedding ring."

Mycroft glanced down, then held up the hand wearing the gold band. "This was my uncle's. I don't pay much attention to which hand I wear it on."

Under the influence of Lestrade's encouraging expression Mycroft was appalled to hear himself add: "He came to live with us after our father left."

Lestrade had been a detective for long enough to recognise how much was hidden beneath that sentence. Something of what he was thinking must have been obvious because as he watched Mycroft's expression smoothed out into one of prissy superiority. He pretended not to notice.

"If even you get checked up on, who guards the guards?"

Lestrade abruptly found himself under an unnerving, unblinking scrutiny.

"You've took Latin." It had the sound of an accusation. "Or at least read Juvenal's _Satires_."

"Don't be ridiculous," said Lestrade irritably. "If a kid at my school learnt to read English it was by accident."

"And yet here you are," said Mycroft acidly.

Lestrade eyed him with a trace of pity. "You don't have a clue, do you."

Stung, Mycroft swallowed what he had been about to say because the truth was, he hadn't. "No," he said flatly, looking down.

"And you shouldn't have to apologise for having a decent education," recognised Lestrade. "Sorry. I sounded like one of those professional under-privileged wankers."

Mycroft's lips twitched. "No. Trust me. I've had to..." On the verge of an untypical discretion, he stopped. "Sorry. I must be more tired than I realised."

"Whatever your role in government, I'm glad you're on our side."

"Dear me, I'm on no one's side. Nor am I in government. While they play politics it's our task to try to maintain the welfare of the country - both in the long and short term. And I shouldn't have told you that much, Lestrade. Must I?"

Mycroft broke off to ask, looking pained. "Surnames are so public school."

"Hackney comprehensive in my case," said Lestrade cheerfully. "When I could be arsed to turn up, that is. Call me what you like."

"Thank you, Gregory. You already know my name, of course." The soft, precise voice gave Lestrade's name three distinct syllables.

Lestrade was disconcerted by just how much he enjoyed hearing Mycroft say a name he'd never thought of as his.

"Things went well for you, didn't they?" he said shrewdly. Fatigue had given Mycroft's eyelids a languid look and roughened his voice but he was still exuding a heady wattage of ... Charisma? Power? Whatever it was, it was one hell of a turn on.

Lestrade belatedly realised Mycroft had been talking.

"...more to the point, they didn't go badly. Which is the best we can hope for in these troubled times. It isn't so much a victory as the avoidance of catastrophe. On the subject of which, I'm truly sorry you had such an uncomfortable few days - particularly given the magnitude of the favour you were kind enough to perform."

"Don't give me too much credit," said Lestrade dryly.

"I presume you'll want to fly out with me."

Lestrade narrowed his eyes, waiting for the punch line.

"You're very suspicious," complained Mycroft mildly.

"Odd that, given the company I'm keeping. What about Sherlock?"

"He must decide whether or not he stays," said Mycroft, his expression sobering. "I can't - won't - force him. He's the only one who can ensure he stays clean, I've finally accepted that much."

They walked through the dunes to where the tide was curling in across the storm-wracked beach, as if the fury of the last days had never happened.

"This is a beautiful spot," said Lestrade on a note of discovery. "It's the first time I've been this far north. The night sky is amazing - when the cloud lifts."

"You're interested in astronomy?"

"Not at all. I've just never seen so many stars at one time before. I'm quite happy to enjoy them in ignorance. Just don't, all right?" Lestrade added, distracted by the other man's air of sleepy sensuality.

"Don't what?" asked Mycroft, faint but pursuing.

"Say any more about Sherlock because you'll talk me into staying and I won't know how it happened until it's too late."

Mycroft looked mildly perplexed. "My dear Gregory, if only I possessed the powers you ascribe to me. I'm - "

"Spare me the I-am-but-a-humble-civil-servant routine. Uriah Heep you're not."

"I suppose I should be grateful for small mercies," mused Mycroft. "Although as I recall he wasn't a civil servant. A solicitor's clerk, wasn't it? Although, like me, he did have red hair."

"I should just surrender now," muttered Lestrade, tucking his cold hands into his coat pockets. "We both know you can run mental rings around me."

Mycroft cocked his head. "I have the feeling I missed a portion of this conversation."

It belatedly occurred to Lestrade, who was a little short on sleep himself, that perhaps the flirting had just been in his head.

"Never mind," he said gruffly. "It's probably just the result of ten days stranded with Sherlock."

"Ah." Mycroft shot the bent head another intent look. "That would do it to the best of men."

"You don't happen to know how things went at my flat, do you?" Lestrade added in an abrupt change of subject. "I know it's trivial compared to what you've been dealing with but - "

"My apologies. I completely forgot. Len left me a message for you. The system was installed - at the lower price, apparently there was less pipework needed than first thought. Everything's working as it should."

Unaware that his fleeting relief had been noted, Lestrade nodded his thanks. "Can I have a cigarette?" he asked abruptly into the comfortable silence which had fallen between them as they strolled along.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows.

"Trained detective," Lestrade reminded him. "Also desperate after ten days without one, alone on a desert island with Sherlock and no fresh food."

Mycroft offered him a packet of Dunhill International and a slim gold lighter.

"This seems poor recompense for your suffering. I've lost count of the number of times I've tried to give up the wretched things. Not least because the craving does nothing to make interminable meetings more bearable."

"I can imagine," said Lestrade, offering him a light. "I'll give up after this one."

He inhaled with dedication, coughed and inhaled again. As he watched, Mycroft propped himself against a mound of springy grass and smoked his cigarette with obvious pleasure; his face to the sun, he looked quietly and completely at peace.

"You've mastered the art of relaxing quickly," Lestrade noted.

"It's a necessity in my line of work," said Mycroft matter of factly. "Free time can be something of a luxury so it's essential to take full advantage of what I do have. Experience has taught me that decision making is easier after a break, no matter how short it might be. Plus, of course, it helps to keep stress to a minimum."

"That's lucky because you're going to be the one to tell Sherlock he can't work on those cold cases until he's finished his homework," said Lestrade mischievously.

Mycroft gave him a faintly accusing look. "You couldn't let me finish my cigarette before ruining the moment?"

"Where would be the fun in that? Ten days alone with Sherlock," Lestrade reminded him, his eyes warm with amusement.

"Why do I feel this is going to be a recurring theme." Mycroft stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette. "It never tastes as good in reality," he explained, when he saw Lestrade watching him.

"It's no good trying to make me feel guilty. Ten days. You should stay the night," added Lestrade.

"The better for you to complete your murderous plans?"

"Of course. And how else can you appreciate just how uncomfortable the place is?"

"Underwhelmed by your offer as I am - " A look of resignation crossed Mycroft's face as his phone vibrated. "Excuse me, I must take this."

Because he made no attempt to move away, Lestrade stayed where he was and tried not to eavesdrop too obviously.

"Thank you, ma'am. It was gratifying to see accord reached. But I can't claim sole responsibility. Ah. He exaggerates my role. _Retirement_?"

In the silence that followed, Lestrade tried to place the various expressions which crossed Mycroft's face: from surprise, through a fierce blaze of triumph, to control - all in the space of a few seconds.

"I should be honoured to accept. A short break would be most welcome before taking up my new... No, I believe I would rather stay up here. The weather seems to have improved and the sea air..."

After a few moments more Mycroft tucked away his phone. "You should be careful what you wish for, Gregory. It seems I am staying the night. In fact possibly several nights."

"That'll teach me," agreed Lestrade, looking remarkably happy at the prospect. "Of course, you realise you'll have to cook."

There was silence for approximately ten seconds.

"And why would you imagine I couldn't?"

"Oh, smooth. So could you?"

"No," admitted Mycroft. "I was hoping you would take pity on me."

"That's been your strategy ever since we met, hasn't it," recognised Lestrade. "Well, I'm on to you now." He paused to skim a pebble out across the water but it sank after the first bounce.

"Dear me," said Mycroft mildly, "then I shall just have to think of something else. Shall we head back? I am rather hungry."

"When did you eat last? Apart from that apple, I mean."

Mycroft looked vague.

"Wonderful, now I've got two of you," complained Lestrade, but he looked remarkably sanguine at the prospect.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

Lestrade closed the door of the hut behind them and gestured flamboyantly. "It's not much but we call it home."

"I've wronged you," discovered Mycroft, staring around him with a mixture of disdain and disbelief. "I assumed a degree of exaggeration on your part but it _is_ warmer outside."

"And you're stuck here on holiday."

"Try not to sound so gleeful. We need supplies," said Mycroft with decision.

"Heaters, more bedding, warmer clothing."

"Not that you've given it any thought."

"Ten days," Lestrade reminded him. "Oh, fresh herbs - the ones that grow in pots. Spices. Black pepper. If you're sure you don't know how to cook?"

"I once had a mishap with hard-boiled eggs."

"What, did you let them boil dry?"

"Worse, they exploded in the microwave," said Mycroft wryly.

"By accident?"

"Of course by accident. I'm not Sherlock."

"An unnecessary reminder," Lestrade assured him. "You'll just have to wash up then."

"I shall look forward to it."

Lestrade cocked his head. "Somehow I thought you'd be a better liar than that."

"Thank you. I think."

"Why aren't you taking notes? There's more stuff we need."

"I had a feeling there might be." As he spoke Mycroft was slowly moving through the hut, checking the facilities for himself.

"Spartan doesn't begin to describe it," he murmured as he eyed Lestrade's bedroom. "Are they the warmest clothes you have here?"

Lestrade nodded. "I had to give Sherlock a couple of my sweatshirts."

"Why?"

"Common decency. He has even less warm clothing than I do. Not that it stopped him from moaning about their inferior quality," Lestrade added with a reminiscent grin.

Mycroft briefly closed his eyes. "I'm... Sorry doesn't really cover it. That's appallingly rude, even by his standards."

"I'm pretty sure he was still testing his boundaries to see what I'd let him get away with. I'm presuming that phase lasts a while."

"Twenty-five years and counting. You're very forgiving." Mycroft's speech was slower than usual, as if it required some effort to remain coherent.

"I could just be biding my time until he's out from his big brother's shadow. Besides, keep him off smack, who knows what he could become?"

"You realise that's a double-edged sword?" Mycroft almost tripped over the stack of suitcases that had been left in the small hallway which led to the three bedrooms.

"That's a lot of luggage," noted Lestrade as he helped to ferry it into the spare bedroom.

"I didn't know how long I would be gone."

"Or always where in the world, I suppose. Do you want help unpacking?"

"There's little here I'll want. When I'm not working I prefer not to wear the uniform." Mycroft gestured to his suit.

"So this isn't the real you?"

"Oh, make no mistake, this who I am. Just not all that I am. And please wipe that smirk off your face," Mycroft added tartly. "I don't know what you're picturing me wearing but I can assure you my choices are both conventional and dull."

"I'd settle for warm."

"Ah, there I can help." Mycroft started to search through suitcases, leaving havoc in his wake, until he drew out a knitted jacket the colour of milky hot chocolate. He handed it to Lestrade.

"Won't you need this?"

"I'm wearing a three piece suit and an overcoat. Sherlock certainly won't want to wear anything of mine."

Lestrade gratefully shrugged into the jacket. Whatever it was made of was soft as a cloud and blissfully warm. It was a bit like wearing a hug, only without the twee.

"This is fantastic - I've never worn anything so warm yet light. What's it made of?"

"If you play Scrabble you may want to remember qiviut." Mycroft spelt it out for him.

"Let me guess, the yarn comes from the nostril hairs of a cashmere goat?"

"Close. The underwool of a muskox's belly."

Lestrade frowned. "What's a muskox?"

"Big, hairy, bovine with big horns. Found in Alaska, amongst other places."

"I wouldn't fancy trying to gather that. Shearing must be out so I'm guessing the yarn's pricey. This looks homemade." Lestrade glanced up, his eyebrows raised in question.

Mycroft shook his head as if despairing of him. "I'm a tad busy to have time to knit. Len's wife wanted to try the yarn. I bought her some. Instead of making something for herself, she made this for me."

"Is Len your manservant?" Lestrade asked bluntly.

"Er, yes."

"Well, it's hardly a surprise by now that you've got one. I couldn't imagine you doing your own ironing."

"You mean you tried?"

Lestrade grimaced. "Damned if I do."

"Less damned if you didn't," Mycroft pointed out, eyeing him quizzically.

While he smiled, Lestrade could almost taste the other man's mouth, want, raw and pulsing, alive in him for the first time in months.

Wonderful bloody timing, he thought moodily, tucking his hands under the warm cuffs of the jacket in case he forgot himself.

"Gregory?"

"It's freezing in the hall. Maybe it'll have warmed up in the living area," he replied, aware that he was babbling.

"I admire your optimism, even if I don't share it," murmured Mycroft, as he followed Lestrade.

Their arrival attracted Sherlock's attention this time; sat on the floor, a semi-circle of files around him, he looked as if Christmas had come early.

"Oh, hello," he said, sparing Mycroft a glance. "What are you doing here? Taken to walking on water, have you?"

"Touched as I am by the warmth of your welcome. Don't spread scene-of-crime photographs over the floor. If you must, use your own room."

"There's no space left in there," said Sherlock, delving back into the box.

"Besides which, you've reading to do before you can work on those files," Lestrade reminded Sherlock.

"What? I'll do that later."

"Yeah? Your brother has something to tell you." Lestrade paused just long enough to enjoy the look of betrayal Mycroft gave him before he left the brothers to it.

By the time he returned from the bathroom Sherlock was sulking for England and Mycroft was on the phone, ordering what sounded like enough supplies to last for several weeks.

"Sherlock, is there anything you need?" Mycroft broke off to ask.

He looked up from flicking through 'Post-Mortem and Scene Examination Best Procedures'.

"Sticky tape. Blutack. A magnifying glass. Computer. Scanner/printer. Ink cartridges, paper. Phone. Cigarettes."

"No cigarettes," said Mycroft automatically.

"Hypocrite," said Sherlock without heat.

"I know. Shocking, isn't it? There are three left in this packet. You may have one of them."

Sherlock gave him the finger and went back to his book.

"Gregory?"

"My phone and computer don't seem to have turned up."

Mycroft grimaced and returned to the phone.

"Grahame. We seem to have a small problem. Detective Inspector Lestrade's phone and computer. Find them. In the meantime, send replacements. A moment.

"Gregory. Would you like someone to collect your post?"

"Please."

Mycroft wandered down the room, murmuring a stream of instructions into the phone.

"Books on arson!" yelled Sherlock. "There aren't any books on arson. Lestrade, tell me everything you know. Omit nothing."

"We'll talk later. I'm going to cook us a meal."

"I'm not hungry."

"That's all right, you can watch us eat," Lestrade said cheerfully.

To Lestrade's private relief the simple meal of fish and fresh vegetables with a cheese sauce went perfectly. While Sherlock claimed food slowed down his thought processes and remained by the heater reading, Lestrade had the satisfaction of watching Mycroft eat with evident enjoyment, if sparingly. He declined the offer of cheese and biscuits.

"I have to watch my weight," Mycroft added, swallowing a yawn. He was having obvious difficulty in keeping his eyes open by this time

While it was true Mycroft had a slight double chin and cheeks that lacked Sherlock's spectacular bone structure, they were the only sign of surplus flesh. Lestrade had the sense not to comment; most people were sensitive about their weight or body image to one degree or another.

He began to clear away, resigned to acting as skivvy for the Holmes brothers. To his surprise Mycroft followed him with the last of the dishes.

"What can I do to help?"

"It's a noble offer. And one I'll take you up on tomorrow. You're close to being asleep on your feet."

"But it's only 7.30."

"Go away. Sleep tight," added Lestrade. He received a look he wasn't sure how to interpret before Mycroft wandered off. He bumped into a chair at the table, then narrowly missed collision with the door jamb.

"And to think the safety of the country is in his hands," said Sherlock. "I told you he had two left feet. It gets even worse when he's exhausted. I suppose I'll have to make sure he doesn't knock himself out on something."

Lestrade watched him head after Mycroft, wondering how much that keenness to help his brother was owed to Sherlock's desire to escape the washing up.

Mycroft had only got as far as hanging up his overcoat when Sherlock entered his room without knocking.

"Don't pin your hopes on getting much sleep," he said abruptly.

"Right now I could sleep on a clothesline," Mycroft assured him, as he struggled to extricate himself from his suit jacket.

Sherlock sighed and went to help him before going through Mycroft's jumbled possessions to locate his pyjamas, dressing gown and leather mules.

"You won't find any more cigarettes," said Mycroft mildly as he unfastened his tie.

"You don't usually smoke these days. What was stressing you out?"

"There were some difficult moments." Mycroft tried to unfasten the chain of his pocket watch.

Sherlock did it for him to two deft movements. "But you succeeded."

"I wouldn't put it that strongly. It's fine. Really," Mycroft added because Sherlock was still watching him with that disconcerting intensity of his.

"Then get your head down while you can. Lestrade's woken me every night we've been here. I complained, which meant he stayed up for hours. And he seems to need more sleep than me."

"Everyone needs more sleep than you," Mycroft pointed out. Waistcoat removed, he fumbled with his cufflinks.

"Here, let me, you'll be here all night," said Sherlock impatiently.

Mycroft sank onto the edge of the bed, one arm held out to him while he heeled off his shoes and swallowed another yawn. He concentrated enough to remove his ankle holster and set it beside the bed, on top of a pile of suitcases. He realised Sherlock was looking unusually serious and shook his head. "Precaution only. Do not - "

"How old do you think I am? I wouldn't dream of it," sniffed Sherlock.

Mycroft tossed his socks into the corner of the room. "In his line of work it isn't to be wondered at if Lestrade gets the occasional disturbed night. Everyone has nightmares."

"Even you?" Sherlock set the cufflinks next to the holster holding the Glock.

Mycroft slid his braces from his shoulders, then stared up at him. "Astonishing as it may seem, I _am_ human."

"Or a close approximation. You never said."

"Why would I? Given how little time you choose to spend in my company, when would I?"

"Don't start," said Sherlock mildly. "Are you here for long?"

"Maybe a week, possibly less."

"You won't need me to entertain you, will you?"

Mycroft gave a soft snort of amusement as he draped his trousers over a hanger. "Promise me you'll never change."

"Why would I want to?"

"There is that," Mycroft conceded as he tossed his close-fitting boxer briefs on top of his socks and pulled on his pyjamas, shivering in the cold air.

"You've had good news. Another promotion? Yes, and to the very top. Already?"

Mycroft paused in fastening his pyjama jacket. "Sherlock, I can't - "

"You don't need to tell me. I know I'm right."

"You always say that. I need to clean my teeth. Touch anything of mine for one of your foul experiments and - "

"Yadda yadda. You'll need to take something to dry yourself on. I'm using all the towels."

Mycroft sighed and reached for his phone.

Startled awake, Mycroft shot up in bed, already reaching for his Glock before he remembered where he was. Lestrade must be having another bad night. No wonder he looked so tired if this was typical. The partition between the bedrooms was only one layer of plasterboard, privacy at a minimum.

He replaced the Glock in the holster and rubbed his face, feeling as if he had been coshed. Stubble rasped.

It was difficult just to sit and do nothing but it would be an unwarranted intrusion to go to Lestrade; he had dented Gregory's pride too many times as it was. The incoherent sounds were unpleasantly reminiscent of those heard in childhood, bringing back memories best not resurrected.

It was no real surprise when his door opened without ceremony. Mycroft squinted at the intruder when the light was flicked on.

"I told you, didn't I," said Sherlock, stalking into the room. His hair tousled and wearing a pair of pyjamas that were at least three sizes too big for him, he looked little different from the troublesome teenager Mycroft remembered all too vividly.

"Keep your voice down. There's no need to embarrass Lestrade." Mycroft gave his brother as sharp a look as was possible for a man desperate for sleep.

"I'm all right," said Sherlock immediately.

"I never doubted it," said Mycroft in immediate, brisk reassurance. The last thing they needed was Sherlock flying off the handle. "Has it been like this every night?"

Sherlock nodded. "I complained the first time because it would have been unnatural for me not to mention it. It isn't Lestrade's fault."

"No," agreed Mycroft, marvelling that it should have occurred to Sherlock to defend Lestrade to him - or at all, come to that. Of course, it was probably just because he was afraid of losing those damn case files.

"Shift over," commanded Sherlock, "I'm cold."

"The last time I allowed you to share my bed you wet it." Heavy-eyed after an abrupt awakening and far too little sleep, Mycroft remained where he was.

"I was five!" said Sherlock hotly, before he gave a theatrical shudder and whipped back the duvet. "Move your fat arse. There's just room for both of us."

"Only if one of us - me - is uncomfortable," pointed out Mycroft with displeasure, but he inched over, unsurprised to find himself being edged out of his own bed within seconds. Abandoning the unequal contest, he left the bed to Sherlock and the ice-blocks he called feet and immediately pulled on his overcoat and scarf.

"Tea?" he said with resignation.

"Might as well, if you're making some." All that could be seen of Sherlock were a few tufts of hair.

Very clean hair, Mycroft noted. Which meant Sherlock really was getting back to - well, 'normal' might be stretching things.

The sounds from Lestrade's room had stopped, so Mycroft was careful to make as little noise as possible in the kitchen. By the time he returned to the bedroom with two mugs of the appalling tea - all that was available - Sherlock was fast asleep and for one so narrow, successfully occupying all of the single bed. Mycroft collected his work and personal phones, tucked the holster in his pocket, switched off the light and went to Sherlock's room.

He swiftly closed the door without venturing inside. Anything that smelt that appalling must be a health hazard. And while he would ensure Sherlock cleared out the room, now was hardly a suitable time. With an inward sigh, because he knew he had some way to go before he made up his recent sleep deprivation, he took his tea into the living area. He paused when he saw Lestrade sitting at the table, huddled in qiviut.

"Sorry I woke you," Lestrade said, avoiding Mycroft's eyes. His shoulders defensively hunched, hands locked tight, he was clearly embarrassed and still shaken.

It would be absurd - and insulting - not to acknowledge what had occurred.

"It happens to the best of us," said Mycroft casually, before he went to make more tea.

Lestrade rubbed his hands over his face and hair, which was sticking up on end. "You should go back to bed."

"I'd love to but Sherlock has appropriated mine. I think the appalling smell in his room must have become too much even for him."

"Or I woke him up."

Mycroft shrugged and placed the mug of tea in front of Lestrade. "Sugar?"

"No, thanks. Thanks," Lestrade repeated with real conviction after a blisteringly hot sip. "You've got it just right."

"I have a good memory." Mycroft sat opposite him.

"The mould must be thriving in Sherlock's room," said Lestrade, making a valiant effort to pretend nothing was wrong.

"I'm hoping those files you've given him will provide distraction enough to prevent any more experiments." Mycroft fished in his pocket, checked his work phone from habit, then found the packet of cigarettes and lighter. He pushed them into Lestrade's line of vision.

After a few moments Lestrade lit one. "You?" he asked belatedly.

Mycroft shook his head. Gregory's need was clearly greater than his own.

The tense muscles of Lestrade's face eased into something resembling a grin when he recognised the longing on Mycroft's face.

"Such restraint," he mocked. "Here, we'll split it." When Mycroft made no attempt to take the cigarette from him, he added, "Not used to sharing a smoke?"

It offered the perfect opening through Gregory's defences, thought Mycroft as he relaxed back in his chair. "Not of tobacco," he said lazily.

There was no mistaking Lestrade's grin this time. "You mean you inhaled?"

"It's disturbing to see a Detective Inspector so thrilled at the thought. I'm afraid I did. I'd rather Sherlock didn't find out."

"I bet you would. Big mistake to hand me so much blackmail material."

"You lulled me into a false sense of security."

Fully engaged in the conversation by this time, Lestrade continued to relax. He nudged Mycroft's hand and gave him the cigarette. "How old were you at the time?"

"Seventeen and desperate to appear 'cool' - doomed to failure, of course. Anyone less 'cool' than me would be hard to imagine. Yves was my first lover. First boyfriend come to that. He was twenty one, French and sophisticated. A real man of the world," said Mycroft sardonically. Wreathed in smoke, he returned the cigarette.

"How much of a disaster was the relationship?" Lestrade wondered what Mycroft had looked like at seventeen. His were the kind of looks that improved with age.

"Oh, total," said Mycroft, with nothing in his soft, sleep-slurred voice to indicate that the sting of betrayal had yet to fade. "I was fat, awkward, pompous and fancied myself in love. In short, an embarrassment to be seen with. But I was rich."

"Thin now though," offered Lestrade, straight-faced.

Taken unawares, Mycroft's expression morphed into an unselfconscious and decidedly goofy grin.

"Thank you for those words of comfort. This is the first time I've been able to find any amusement in memories of Yves." Mycroft wondered what the hell had come over him. The confidences had gone way beyond what he had planned. He was supposed to be the skilled interrogator but this was far from the first time that he'd told Gregory more than he had intended.

Lestrade's expression gentled. "Seventeen is a brutal age to get your heart broken."

"I doubt if there's a good one."

"It's happened to you more than once?"

"Oh, no," said Mycroft with finality. "I'm a fast learner."

"I bet you are but I hope you didn't let the tosser put you off."

Mycroft eyed him from under his lashes. "Not at all. I rather took to sex."

Lestrade had no difficulty believing it. The fact he was dressed in pyjamas and an overcoat had done nothing to dent Mycroft's assurance - or his appeal. He'd like to see more of those grey silk pyjamas. Then less, slipping a hand between Mycroft-warmed silk and pale freckled skin. Though just how freckled...

"This is an extraordinary conversation to be having," Mycroft realised, unaware that he had interrupted a promising fantasy.

"It's twenty past three in the morning. No one's responsible for what they say then," said Lestrade, giving him an easy out.

"Ah, that explains it." Mycroft took a sip of tea and discovered it tasted even worse when cold. "Memories can be triggered by the strangest things. For me, it's scent - gin, beeswax and French cigarettes. Fortunately not a combination I come across too often."

"No," said Lestrade, lustful fantasies banished in a heartbeat. He looked down, watching as his index finger began to describe tightening circles on the table top.

Mycroft made no attempt to break the silence which fell, hoping only that he wouldn't fall asleep.

After some minutes had passed Lestrade took an audible breath. "I never realised it before but I think it's a combination of colours for me. The bedrooms at the Care Home were the same shade as the rooms here. Grey lino, grey metal beds. I can't remember any smells, beyond the obvious, just this blue paint - cold, yet sickly at the same time. You used to see that shade quite a bit in various institutions. The government must have bought a job lot."

"More than likely," agreed Mycroft. "You could always try sticking scene-of-crime photographs on the walls."

Lestrade looked up at that and shook his head as if in despair. "Oh, you are one sick puppy. I can see where Sherlock gets it from now. I could try leaving my door open, I suppose."

"It might be warmer too. The bedrooms are like ice-boxes." By this time Mycroft was visibly listing where he sat.

"You need sleep before you simply fall off that chair. Take my bed, I don't plan to use it again tonight."

Lestrade sat back, staring at an oblivious Mycroft. It had just dawned on him that an exhausted man had taken the time and trouble to offer intensely private moments from his own past to try to help him. The knowledge slid under his every defence - he hadn't thought of Mycroft as kind before. Probably never would again. But he wouldn't forget this.

"Go on," he urged. "I'm fine. Time to read without interruption is a luxury."

Mycroft nodded and rose slowly to his feet, stumbled and caught hold of the edge of the table before heading off.

He was almost out of the room when Lestrade added, "Thank you, for what you did."

Mycroft waved away the thanks. "Don't be absurd. Oh, wait. I meant to leave you this." With some difficulty he shrugged out of his coat and returned to hand it to Lestrade. "You'll need it. Should you change your mind about sleep, kick Sherlock awake."

"Oh, no, let sleeping Sherlocks lie. Goodnight."

Mycroft nodded vaguely and bumped into a chair before making it safely out of the room.

Ten minutes later Lestrade discovered what was weighing down the pockets of Mycroft's overcoat.


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT: CUTTING THE STRINGS

The sun on his face, Mycroft woke slowly, remembered where he was and relaxed again.

To be so without responsibility was something of a novelty - there was Sherlock, of course, but not only was he clean, he was safe and being relatively civil, even if it wouldn't do to take the latter for granted. The wonder of it made up for current minor discomforts.

He gave a leisurely, muscle-popping stretch of pure well-being. The bedding smelt faintly of cheap soap and shampoo, with the faintest hint of what could only be Gregory Lestrade. Better if Gregory had been here in person, of course. Although perhaps not while Sherlock was next door, Mycroft conceded, amused.

It was so quiet he could only presume the others were still asleep; all he could hear was the soft whump of the wind turbine outside.

He checked his wristwatch and saw that it was nearly eleven o'clock. No wonder he felt so rested. Time for a leisurely shower, followed by breakfast. Hot buttered toast for preference. Even he should be able to manage that.

Mycroft opened his door and stopped dead. Lestrade sat slumped on an upright chair, gripping Mycroft's gun holster, where he had obviously been keeping guard until exhaustion overtook him.

Mortified to realise he had slept for seven hours, despite his assertions that he needed little sleep, Sherlock leapt out of bed, muttering to himself when he tripped over some of Mycroft's possessions. The cold making itself felt, he checked to see if Mycroft owned any warm clothing he would be prepared to wear, although it seemed unlikely.

Proved correct, he braved his own room. Clean clothing over one arm, he was about to head off for a shower when he saw who was already in the hall and paused unnoticed in the doorway of his room.

Mycroft was crouched in front of Lestrade, who was fast asleep, his head lolling in a way which meant he would have a stiff neck when he woke up. Mycroft had one hand over the gun holster, the other on Lestrade's arm but it was the look on his brother's face which stopped Sherlock from announcing his presence. That expression of fond exasperation was usually reserved for himself.

Well, well. The interest wasn't a surprise, of course, you could cut the sexual tension between the two of them with a knife. But affection? From Mycroft...

Sherlock returned to his bedroom without being noticed. It would be odd not to come first with Mycroft. A relief, of course, but odd. But he thought Lestrade could be relied upon to treat Mycroft decently. If he could put up with him at all.

The discovery reinforced that it was time for him to cut the strings, Mycroft never would, no matter what he said or did.

But it would be odd.

But not so odd as having to think of Mycroft having sex. Time to delete, he didn't want to clutter up his mind with inessentials.

It took several attempt to wake Lestrade, who grimaced, then straightened where he sat with a faint groan.

"Good morning," said Mycroft, rising to his feet in one smooth movement, the gun holster in one hand. "Thank you for keeping watch." He had no intention of pointing out that it had been unnecessary because that would negate what Gregory had done - although given Gregory's scores on the firearms range he could only be grateful there had been no incident. Still...

"Fine guard I am," croaked Lestrade in a rusty voice.

"Come to bed," coaxed Mycroft.

Befuddled, Lestrade blinked up at him. "What?"

Mycroft didn't waste time trying to initiate a conversation but steered him through the door and flipped back the duvet just before Lestrade plonked down, still obviously half-asleep. Within a minute or so he was clearly dead to the world.

Mycroft left the bedroom door wide open and stole the duvet from his room to add to the one already covering Lestrade, by which time Lestrade was snoring gently.

Mycroft's smile faded when he realised Sherlock had beaten him to the bathroom. If he used all the hot water...

Happily munching a bacon and HP sauce sandwich and with a mug of tea in his other hand, Lestrade wandered out of the hut into the brilliant afternoon light and pretended he wasn't looking for Mycroft.

He eventually tracked him down among the sand dunes, in a spot sheltered from the wind which was coming in off the sea. Mycroft spared him a lazy smile of greeting, then closed his eyes again. He obviously hadn't bothered to shave, stubble glinting in various shades from chestnut to orange in the bright light.

Lestrade made himself comfortable beside him, listening to the sound of the tide coming in as he inhaled the scent of the sea. He was in danger of dozing off when he heard a plane engine; he rose to his feet a beat ahead of Mycroft, who began to brush sand from his person as they headed for the air strip.

"Clean towels," said Lestrade dreamily.

"Heaters," added Mycroft, his yard-eating stride reminding Lestrade of the difference in their height.

By the time they arrived at the air strip the plane engine had been switched off and the first of the cargo was sitting beside the plane.

"It's a girl!" exclaimed Lestrade.

"Oh, well done, Inspector," mocked Mycroft.

"I know what I meant," said Lestrade with dignity.

"Afternoon, sir," she called, handing down a large box to Mycroft. "Nice beard. Detective Inspector."

"Gregory, if you would excuse us for a moment I should like to get an update on various matters."

The brunette straightened. "Sorry, sir. We have strict instructions. You're on holiday, whether you like it or not, therefore no briefings. You're welcome to speak to - "

"No," sighed Mycroft with resignation. "I've been told I need to detatch with love, although I won't pretend it's going well. Where's - ?"

"Afternoon, sir," said a chubby-faced young man, peering out of the doorway, before handing Lestrade several holdalls, presumably containing clothes.

"Afternoon. Gregory, allow me to introduce...Miss Moneypenny - "

"I would have hoped you'd choose someone less wet," she complained, continuing to unload boxes at an impressive pace.

"Hope is cheap," Mycroft told her. "And this gentleman is - "

"Goldfinger," he said with obvious relish.

"Oh, Good Lord."

"Don't give me that," said Lestrade. "I notice you know both names."

Moneypenny gave an involuntary grin.

"I'm taking notes," Mycroft warned, motioning for her to hand him the box she was holding.

"Eidetic memory failing you, sir?"

"I believe it's time to relieve the troops. A week in the fresh air will do you the world of good," Mycroft told her blandly.

Her expression dropped.

"Good-oh," said Goldfinger. "This is a fantastic spot."

"No, you're London bound. Is this the lot?"

"There's just the fruit, sir," said Moneypenny.

Lestrade beamed at her, enjoying yet another side he was seeing to Mycroft. He wouldn't have bet money on him having such an easy rapport with his subordinates. "Great. Hang on. How did you know I - ?" He swung round to Mycroft. "Tell me you haven't got the hut bugged?"

"I haven't got the hut bugged," said Mycroft, humouring him.

"But why would you?" asked Lestrade puzzled.

"Having no life of my own, I have to live vicariously through others," Mycroft told him, straight-faced.

Only the presence of Mycroft's subordinates stopped Lestrade from making the response he would have liked. Mycroft's quirking mouth told him the message had got through any way.

"Besides, I was only played the edited highlights on the flight over here," said Mycroft, as they began to carry boxes back to the hut. "You might well look wary. Between the complaints about the food, the cold and Sherlock were the insults."

"Ah."

"I thought I got off quite lightly, all things considered. I don't remember ordering quite this much," Mycroft added, as they began their second trip back from the plane.

"A lot of it's gas canisters," offered Moneypenny, taking up the bags containing the duvets and leaving the last six canisters for the men to carry.

"I hear it's going to rain," Mycroft said placidly as he set off with two.

"I'll make us all some tea," said Lestrade, carrying two more, with Goldfinger bringing up the rear.

"No you won't," said Mycroft. "They need to be elsewhere."

"I never thought you'd hold a grudge, sir," said Moneypenny dolefully.

"Live and learn," he told her blandly. "Goodbye."

"Bye, sir. Enjoy your holiday," said Goldfinger cheerfully. "Come on, Anthea..."

Mycroft sighed.

"I hope you're keeping him away from state secrets," murmured Lestrade as the two secret squirrels headed for the plane.

"Rest assured, Graham is moving elsewhere. And I shouldn't have told _you_ that," Mycroft realised with a grimace.

"It's my trustworthy face," joked Lestrade, only to stop, disconcerted by the intensity of Mycroft's gaze. "I won't shop you to Anthea," he added, breaking the mood, whatever it had been.

Mycroft contented himself with giving Lestrade a speaking look.

Their first priority was heat and within a short space of time the bedrooms, bathroom and living area were warming to degree of comfort unknown until now.

Lestrade stared at what he had been told were the holdalls containing his clothes: new underwear and socks, black and his size, if far more expensive than his usual brands; three pairs of jeans which had certainly never seen a high street shop and six cashmere sweaters in soft shades of brown and cream, except for one of rich crimson.

"These aren't mine."

"Well, obviously," said Mycroft, back from ferrying bedding into the various rooms. "You forgot to mention fresh clothing. It was easier to buy new. As for the sweaters, Annie loves to knit. Sherlock refuses to accept anything that doesn't come with a designer label and there are only so many sweaters Len and I can wear. Please keep them. They won't even make a dent in the number she's given me."

"And the laptop and smart phone?" Both were top of the range and while Lestrade couldn't wait to play with them, equally, he couldn't afford them right now.

"Ah, about them." Mycroft brushed the back of his head. "I'm sorry to say we still haven't been able to locate yours. So I hope you'll accept these replacements - and that you haven't lost any data you can't replace."

"No. But these are the latest models."

Mycroft looked blank. "So I should hope. Any problems in using them, contact my PA."

"You have a PA?"

"At the Department of Transport," Mycroft reminded him smugly. "I'm going to change."

With the heaters working flat out, the hut warmed to the point where Lestrade, with great reluctance, abandoned the qiviut jacket. Busy setting up his new laptop, he glanced up as Mycroft strolled in and tried not to salivate. The cut and drape of the dark grey trousers suggested silk and a designer who knew what he was doing. The silk shirt, a shade between pale blue and grey, was open at the throat; the black leather ankle boots were the final confirmation that in his own way Mycroft was as much of a peacock as his brother. He had shaved off the orange fuzz and as he walked past Lestrade caught the faintest whiff of something he knew he would enjoy smelling close up and personal.

"I'm going for a stroll," said Mycroft.

"Would you like company?"

"Just so long as it's not Sherlock."

Lestrade grinned. "From the noise, I _think_ he's cleaning his room. Your doing?"

"In a manner of speaking. I just pointed out that his clothes were starting to smell of mould."

"Clever," approved Lestrade as he pulled on the qiviut jacket.

"Also true."

Lestrade opened the door of hut and wondered if it was his imagination but Mycroft seemed both taller, his shoulders wider and his entire body language more relaxed. Those suits had a lot to answer for.

That night, for the first time since arriving on the island, Lestrade slept without nightmares. Perhaps it was the fact he was warm, perhaps it was because he had taken Mycroft's advice and left his door open. Lestrade didn't care what the reason was, he was just grateful to be spared further embarrassment.

After a morning walking in winds so strong that it was a struggle to remain upright, Lestrade watched Mycroft go out again that afternoon and decided to do some cooking.

"What's wrong?" he asked without much interest as he became aware of the huffing and puffing coming from Sherlock's corner. "You might find it easier if you concentrated on one book at a time."

"They're boring."

"True. But necessary if you want to work a crime scene. Of course, if you're finding it too complicated..."

Sherlock spared him a look of scorn. "Don't try to play me, you're not good enough."

"Not interested enough would be more accurate," Lestrade pointed out.

That attracted Sherlock's interest. "No, you're not, are you. Why not?"

"Modesty's not your strong suite, is it. Unlike Mycroft I don't have to put up with you," said Lestrade frankly. "You keep your end of the deal and we'll work together - though God help my team - but only if you keep your end of the deal. Knowledge of scene of crime protocols is just part of it."

"I will," said Sherlock. "I think it's time I cut the strings," he added abruptly, stalking over to the kitchen area because he wasn't convinced he had Lestrade's attention.

Lestrade eased him out of the way so he could check the crowded cupboards in the hope of finding a blender.

"And with you," continued Sherlock.

"And with me what?"

"You're not my policeman."

That ensured he had Lestrade's full attention. "I know I'm not," he said tightly.

"So tell Mycroft."

Lestrade gave up hope of being able to cook in peace. "Tell him what?"

"Oh, do pay attention. Really, it's not much to ask. Tell Mycroft that I'm cutting the strings."

"Why can't you tell him yourself?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It would be better coming from you."

"I don't see how. Not least because I don't have a clue what you're talking about. And while that seems to be my default setting with you, Mycroft will assume that I know. Anyway, if you think Mycroft will stop worrying about you, you're not as bright as you think you are."

"But he doesn't need to."

"I believe you. Best of luck convincing him because I'm not getting involved. Clear? Now, if you're not planning to help, piss off. And no, I will not tell you everything I know about arson scenes of crime."

"Then I'm going out."

Blender located, Lestrade nodded. "No desire to do the washing up?"

"None whatsoever." The door of the hut slammed shut behind Sherlock.

A few moments later Mycroft came in, his usually pale cheeks flushed from walking into the wind.

"So, our puppet master has departed," he said as he began to remove layers of clothing.

"You heard?"

"I was on the point of coming in."

"I rather assumed you were the puppet master," said Lestrade, weighing out flour.

"Me too," conceded Mycroft as he gravitated towards him, "but I expect that was just vanity on my part. You said something about washing up."

Lestrade looked up, eyebrows raised.

"I'm not completely useless," said Mycroft mildly.

"When was the last time you washed up? Pass me those eggs, would you."

"Who keeps count?" Mycroft handed over the eggs, watching as Lestrade cracked two one-handed with an enviable aplomb.

"That's what I thought. There won't be much to do until I've finished. I'm planning to cook."

"Would you like me to go away?" Mycroft sounded resigned.

"Detaching with love not going well?" Lestrade asked, amused. Mycroft was showing all the signs of a man going stir crazy, in a relaxed kind of way.

"Bloody awful," Mycroft confessed. "I'm not accustomed to... It's ridiculous to assume everything will fall apart without me. And vain.

"I see you're not rushing in with a disclaimer," he added with a trace of acid.

"Sometimes you and Sherlock are scarily alike," said Lestrade cheerfully. "Help yourself to my computer."

"Thank you but no. I suspect it would break the spirit of the agreement. What are you making?"

"Fresh pasta, tomato sauce, flat bread. Do you like garlic?"

"Very much."

"Good, me too. I won't worry about Sherlock, odds are he'll only want toast, if he eats at all."

"Is there any non-skilled job I can do?"

"Is that enthusiasm or guilt talking?" enquired Lestrade.

"The latter," admitted Mycroft.

"Then sit and entertain me."

Lestrade started awake, the taste of his nightmare sour on his tongue, his heart beating fast and clammy with sweat. Not the Care Home this time, just... He felt so fucking unwanted. Was unwanted. And after fourteen years of monogamy he hadn't got a clue how to...

Impatient with self-pity, he switched off the heater and pulled the crimson sweater on top of his threadbare pyjama bottoms. After a stop at a bathroom he ambled into the living area.

Mycroft was lounging on one of what were erroneously described as easy chairs, his long legs crossed at the ankle. Gold-rimmed half-moon spectacles were perched on the end of his long nose as he read a cold case file. His mouth turned down, he looked discontented, severe and as sexy as hell.

All but twitching with lust Lestrade seated himself at the kitchen table. He didn't usually wear anything in bed and these pyjama bottoms were so ancient they wouldn't withstand much strain.

"Couldn't you sleep?" asked Mycroft, looking up at Lestrade over the top of his spectacles.

"Too hot," said Lestrade because he had absolutely no intention of telling this man the truth. "You?"

Mycroft shrugged and avoided Lestrade's gaze before returning to flicking through the file. The case was pre computer age, so that the pages had all been typed, with either top copies, or black-smudged carbons, slightly yellowed and brittle. With no change of expression he sifted through the photographs, examining them dispassionately: the two bodies, bloody ruins of anything human, with their intestines draped over the floor and blood splattered over floor, walls and early seventies furniture. The point of exercise escaped him; given the age of the case, the murderer was probably dead by now.

"What do you make of it?" asked Lestrade.

Mycroft shuffled the photographs together and dropped the file to the floor. "I simply cannot comprehend why Sherlock wants to squander his talents on such stuff. It isn't as if..." His brain belatedly catching up with his tongue, he grimaced and pushed himself up in his chair.

"Gregory, I didn't - "

"Best leave it there," said Lestrade, lust effectively quenched by the dismissive contempt in that soft, precise voice.

Mycroft got to his feet and walked over to where Lestrade sat; standing in front of him, he slipped off his spectacles and set them on the table. "I intended no slight. I just don't understand why Sherlock won't commit to a career rather than dabbling like a rank amateur. If he wants to detect he should do what you did and join the police."

"Would you mind if he did?"

"He won't. He's devoid of the discipline required to work his way up from a constable in uniform. I certainly didn't intend to imply - "

Lestrade shrugged the assurance aside, all expression wiped from his face. "It doesn't matter."

"Of course it matters. You're rightly proud of the job you do. It was never my intention to trivialise that."

"But compared to what you do it _is_ trivial."

Mycroft frowned. "Why would you try to compare our jobs? Although obviously they do have elements in common. We both understand the concept of duty, obligation and service. In out own way we both serve the public."

By this time Lestrade had relaxed to the point where he managed to smile. "When have you ever 'served' any one?" he teased.

"I made you tea," said Mycroft, responding in kind.

"Yes. Yes, you did. And it was excellent," Lestrade admitted.

"I would be more flattered if you didn't sound so surprised." Mycroft flexed his stiff back and studied Lestrade where he sat.

"We're fine," said Lestrade, making it easy for him.

Narrow-eyed, Mycroft continued to watch him. "Are we?"

"Yes, we are."

"Good. I should regret any misunderstanding."

Mycroft was close enough to feel his body heat, to catch the subtle drift of his cologne, or soap, or the man, who was looking at him as if -

Already losing the ability to concentrate, Lestrade stopped trying when Mycroft moved a step closer. He got to his feet, his hands settling over Mycroft-warmed silk as he reeled Mycroft in, his mouth parting.

Mycroft made a soft, incoherent 'Mnmph' sound, then he was kissing Lestrade back, deep and wet, one hand already sliding under the waistband of his flannel pyjamas, owning his arse.

Lestrade palmed the prick outlined by blue silk and felt Mycroft's jolt of response.

It had been so long since Lestrade had felt desired, since anyone had touched him like this, kissed him like -

He'd never been kissed like this. And if they carried on he'd come against the thigh Mycroft had thrust between his legs.

He wrenched his mouth free, slid his hand from blue silk and took a shaky step back, realised he was still holding Mycroft at the flank with his other hand and let go with some reluctance. "Stop," he mumbled, "I'll come."

"That's the general idea."

"I thought you might be too tired to notice how close I was, am," amended Lestrade, with little idea of what he was saying.

"I might be tired but I'm not dead," Mycroft told him, an edge to his voice as he stepped forward with the obvious intention of carrying on where they had left off.

Lestrade placed his palm on Mycroft's chest; it was unfortunate that it should have landed over his left nipple, hard under the folds of silk. Lestrade's mouth parted. He wanted to test that sensitivity with his teeth, wanted to cover Mycroft with his fingerprints, wanted -

More.

Wanted everything that had been missing from the last years of his marriage: laughter, fun, hot sex, affection, friendship... He wanted to matter to someone again.

"I'm in the middle of a divorce," Lestrade said in a rush, his voice harsh and unfamiliar.

Mycroft, who had been leaning in closer, like a snake hypnotising its prey, stopped in his tracks. "I know." His eyes never left Lestrade's face. The velvety pupils slowly started to shrink back to their normal size.

"Which means my head's a mess. Right now I could shag anything vaguely human just to feel wanted. I won't waste you on a few days of break-up sex."

There was a short silence.

"I see," said Mycroft, expression pressed from his voice before he looked up. "_What_?" Pupils dilating again, he swallowed, blinked and resolutely tried to concentrate on Lestrade's face.

"Maybe if we get the table between us we'll be able to concentrate better." Lestrade could see the clear outline of Mycroft's prick thrusting against blue silk. It would be so easy to sink to his knees...

"It would help if you'd stop looking at my - "

"Yes. Sorry. That is - " Lestrade slumped onto a chair and rubbed his face.

Mycroft sat opposite him, his hands clasped on the table top. "What is it you want from me? I'm quite clear what you don't want."

How much of the edge in his voice was frustrated lust and how much a man unaccustomed to being thwarted, Lestrade wasn't sure. He gave Mycroft an irritable look.

"It isn't that and you know it! Damn it, Mycroft, I want more than a night or two with you. If you don't, say so and we can have sex right here, right now. I'll have you over the table before you've finished saying 'yes'." He stopped, took a steadying breath, then another. "Whatever we might have is going to be complicated enough without break-up sex confusing things."

He tried to count out the seconds but the silence went on for so long that he lost track. His mouth tightened.

"I see. My mistake." He got to his feet, trying to retain a semblance of dignity.

"No! You're not wrong. Aren't. Oh, fuck it, I can't think with a bloody hard on." The glare Mycroft gave Lestrade was distinctly unloverlike.

"I can't apologise."

Mycroft gave him a brooding look. "There's no need to sound so smug. This will be a mistake. A huge mistake. I'm useless at relationships. Inept. Awkward."

"But thin," encouraged Lestrade. As he had known he would, Mycroft got the reference immediately.

"Gregory... I'm serious. I haven't been in a relationship since I was seventeen. Or nothing beyond a few weeks of sex. I don't have time for the complication of a relationship."

"Oh."

"I'll make a complete mess of it," Mycroft was mortified to hear himself add weakly.

"You certainly are so far," Lestrade agreed, but there was affection in his smile.

Mycroft closed his mouth and stared at Lestrade as he tried to understand how his life had become so tangled with Gregory's - without him even noticing.

"It isn't likely to get any better," he warned, his hands parting. "I'm emotionally inept."

"So you said."

Mycroft gave him an oddly helpless look for a man accustomed to controlling everything around him.

"You don't want to waste me on a one night stand?" Mycroft checked. The concept was obviously new to him.

"No, I don't. But what do you want? If that's all you're interested in I'd rather know now because, God help me, I'm already thinking of you as a friend - and if that isn't the road to madness I don't know what is."

Mycroft stared at him, marvelling at his courage. Emotionally honesty had never been a facet of his childhood, let alone adulthood. He thought about his encounters with Gregory to date. Most of the meetings had been unnecessary, brought about for no better reason than that he couldn't damn well keep away from Gregory Lestrade. He was good-looking, of course but he'd known more beautiful men, younger man, eager to please in every way. So why he should be so lust-addled after an aging and opinionated Detective Inspector. And with his new responsibilities this was absolutely the worst time to start a relationship - not that he had the faintest idea how to go about it.

The alternative was not to see Gregory again.

Simple.

"The only thing I'm certain about is that I want more than one night. That I want to keep seeing you," said Mycroft, biting the bullet.

The blaze of triumph on Gregory's face went straight to Mycroft's prick.

"Then we wait until my divorce is final," said Lestrade with decision. "Agreed?"

Mycroft gave an unenthusiastic nod, wondering quite when he had lost any pretence of control over this...whatever it was. He supposed it would be tactless to ask when the degree absolute would be granted.

"May or June," said Lestrade. "That is what you were wondering, isn't it?"

"Amongst other things," said Mycroft, gratified when he saw Lestrade twitch where he sat. But it was fucking typical that it should be so far off. Except there wouldn't be any fucking. Or meetings.

He was disconcerted by the jolt of dismay he felt at the idea of not seeing Gregory until June. Not least because Gregory was bound to find someone else for break-up sex. Only what if they didn't break up?

Dear Lord, he was turning into a thirteen year old girl...

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked.

"Why would I want that?"

Mycroft shrugged and gestured vaguely between them.

"We're not sixteen, we'll cope. Unless you've changed your mind?" Lestrade added, his voice flattening. "It isn't as if you'll be getting much of a prize."

"You're an idiot," Mycroft told him frankly. "I'm going to take a shower. A cold shower, God help me. And it's all your fault. But it's probably worth it," he added when he recognised the lingering doubt on Lestrade's face.

"_Probably_?" queried Lestrade, brightening.

Mycroft sighed and returned to the chair on the opposite side of the table. "Make me some of your disgusting tea, that should have the same effect as a cold shower, without the risk of waking Sherlock."

"Good thinking. Hang on, I thought you liked it."

"I'm actually rather a good liar," explained Mycroft patiently.

Kettle in hand, Lestrade leant against the sink unit and studied him. "Yeah, you must be. Are you going to lie to me again?"

Mycroft exhaled. He couldn't understand how it was that he had absolutely no control over his conversations with Gregory. He examined the implications behind what he was being asked, meet those warm, honest eyes and was lost.

"No," he sighed. "Well, only about work."

"I can live with that."

"Live with what?" demanded Sherlock, as he came into the room. "Oh, tea. Excellent. Is there any toast?"

Oblivious to his brother's narrow-eyed displeasure and Lestrade's incipient giggles, he made himself comfortable in a chair and reached for a file.

Author's Note

Thanks to everyone who's taken the time to comment, it's much appreciated.


	9. Chapter 9

CHAPTER NINE: SHUT UP THE BOX

Sherlock was almost twitching with excitement as he set out photographs in an order that obviously meant something to him. He was oblivious to Lestrade's long-suffering sigh as he set a mug of tea beside him.

"Is there anything else sir would like?"

"Quiet. You're disturbing my train of thought."

Now dressed in far too many clothes for Lestrade's taste and sporting a healthy growth of stubble, Mycroft gave his brother an unamused look. "Yet again you managed to show a complete lack of consideration for others by using all the hot water."

"Bugger," muttered Lestrade, who was last in the queue for the shower. "You'd try the patience of a saint."

Sherlock took a noisy slurp of tea and returned to his reading.

With a seeming lack of purpose, Mycroft drifted over to where Lestrade was now rootling through the fridge.

"Len called while I was getting dressed," Mycroft said, in a voice pitched to carry no farther than Lestrade. "He wondered if you would allow him to carry on working in your flat. Now he's stripped the walls he'd like to work on the woodwork and fireplaces, if you don't mind?"

Lestrade's face lit up with the delight of a man unused to pleasant surprises. "Mind? I'd be euphoric but..."

"You'd be doing me a huge favour," Mycroft assured him with truth. "Len can turn his hand to most things and he's always complaining there isn't enough for him to do when I'm away. You can trust him."

"Yeah, because the idea of you employing anyone untrustworthy..."

"Just eat that damn banana. If you carry on caressing it like that..."

Lestrade's chuckle went straight to Mycroft's groin. "Sorry. I swear I wasn't trying to... I'll have an apple instead." He gave it a token wipe down the side of his pyjama leg before taking a healthy bite out of it.

Mycroft enjoyed the relish with which Lestrade bit into the rosy skin, his tongue flicking out to capture some juice which threatened to escape. Gregory was wonderfully unselfconscious about the minor pleasures of life.

Lestrade looked up. "You want some?" he offered, through a large mouthful.

"You make an unlikely Eve. No, thank you."

"Better than the serpent. And we're back to phallic symbols. Some of the displays of fruit on the market stalls are real works of art," Lestrade added, because they needed to change the subject. He had no desire to get a hard on with Sherlock in the room.

"I've never noticed," Mycroft admitted.

"Harder to spot in Whitehall as you glide past in your limo," Lestrade pointed out with a grin devoid of malice.

"There is that. Perhaps the Prime Minister will consider a stall at the entrance to Downing Street."

"I'm sure there's a joke in there somewhere but I'll resist."

"For which many thanks," said Mycroft with feeling.

"If you're supposed to be a-political I presume you have to be careful what you laugh at."

"Every politician I meet seems to believe they're the wit of the century. The vast majority are mistaken."

"It's the same with senior officers in the Met.. Fortunately I manage to keep off their radar - or I did till you turned up."

"Let's talk about fruit," said Mycroft hastily.

"Well, that shouldn't take long," said Lestrade, disposing of the apple core before propping himself next to Mycroft. On the far side of the room Sherlock was oblivious to their presence as he checked between two reports.

"You like fruit," noted Mycroft as he watched Lestrade peel something orange that smelt like winter afternoons in front of an open fire, although whether it was a tangerine, mandarin or clementine he had no idea.

Lestrade blinked in surprise at the observation. "I suppose I do," he allowed. "How did you know?"

"Apart from the regularity with which you've been eating it since I arrived?"

"OK, I suppose that would be a small clue."

"Not to mention your complaints at its lack while you and Sherlock were stranded here."

"Have half this clementine before I get a complex," said Lestrade.

"When did this passion for fruit begin?" asked Mycroft idly as he ate the fruit segment by segment, letting the sweetness fill his mouth. The perfume from the oil in the fruit skin was one he associated with contentment and security.

Lestrade nibbled reflectively on a sliver of the skin. "I'm not sure. Maybe it all started when I was a kid. Inbetween trying to shoplift packets of fags I was always nicking fruit from stalls, or the front of green grocers. The displays always caught my eye - the shapes, vivid colours, the smells. At the care home everything seemed to be in shades of beige or grey - including the food, which was a kind of nutritious sludge that all came out of packets or tins."

Mycroft grimaced. "I would imagine anything would have been preferable to that."

"Pretty much," Lestrade conceded. "I think the fruit I nicked must have been the first raw, fresh food I'd ever eaten." He smiled suddenly. "I've just remembered the first time I ate a mango. LeRoy, my first boyfriend, taught me the best way to enjoy them. Forget the prissy English way, with a plate and a knife. You should cradle it between your hands and using your thumbs gently massage the flesh under the skin until it's nothing but liquid sunshine. Then, through a small slit at the top you suck it all out. Sticky and sweet and - "

"Bastard," hissed Mycroft, who had never expected to find the topic of mangoes erotic.

His eyes brilliant and heavy with need, Lestrade gave an unrepentant grin. "Even more fun to eat naked, of course. There's a certain amount of spillage."

Mycroft held up his hands, palms outwards, in a gesture of surrender.

"Sorry," said Lestrade without visible contrition. "Speaking of sex..." Smile gone, he was openly scanning the kitchen as if he had lost something.

"What are you looking for?" asked Mycroft.

"It's only just occurred to me. Is this hut still bugged? Not that it matters to me but you might not want your juniors listening to you when - "

"I removed the devices when I arrived," said Mycroft in a soothing tone, unconvinced by Lestrade's disclaimer. He wondered briefly if he might not be too accustomed to living his private life under the eyes of his security detail.

"You did?"

"I did," confirmed Mycroft, who was in the mood to find Lestrade's relief endearing.

"I didn't notice."

"You weren't supposed to," said Mycroft with patience.

Lestrade gave a distracted nod, wondering why he had made that ridiculous embargo on starting a relationship - or just having sex. Stupid, stupid, stupid... He gave the kitchen table a wistful look, then realised Mycroft had followed his train of thought with disconcerting ease.

"Time for your cold shower," said Mycroft blandly.

"No one likes a man who gloats," Lestrade pointed out with dignity. But he went to take it just the same.

After a chilly interval in the bathroom, he reappeared to find both the brothers engrossed in cold case files.

"Right, who wants sausages for breakfast, with - Oh, dear God. Mycroft, get those photos of intestines off the kitchen table," Lestrade protested, the frying pan he had just hooked down from a high shelf drooping in his hand.

"You can't possibly be squeamish after your years in a Major Investigation Team," said Mycroft mildly but he was already gathering up the offending pictures face downwards.

"I'm not. But I prefer not to talk about food when facing intestines." Lestrade's expression sharpened. "Hang on, I didn't select any case involving disembowelment. Which file are they from?"

"Mr and Mrs Roman, 16th September, 1972. Their bodies were discovered in their rented flat in Hackney by their fourteen year old son when he came home from school. His twelve year old sister found him sitting beside them, covered in blood where he'd tried to revive them - which also meant the bodies had been disturbed. As, it was presumed, had the - um - "

" - intestines," said Lestrade with resignation.

"Quite so. Alan Roman had seventeen stab wounds, his wife Gemma, nineteen. Both had been eviscerated. Their two month old baby son was asleep in his cot in their bedroom. The pathologist's report is missing but from his notes he hadn't been able to determine the actual cause of death due to the damage inflicted to the heart and surrounding area. Which, I presume, indicates either a considerable amount of luck or a degree of knowledge of human anatomy. Not to mention strength."

"It could," conceded Lestrade, as he sat beside Mycroft at the table. "Only I remember the damage done by a woman weighing seven stone - of course, she was off her head with PCP at the time."

Mycroft eyed him thoughtfully. "So in your experience would you say the first rule of detection is not to make assumptions?" he asked quietly. While he had his own views on the subject, this was Gregory's profession.

About to make a flippant reply, Lestrade paused. He had never known anyone who gave him such full and concentrated attention as Mycroft did. He had the rare gift of really listening, which made you feel as if anything - everything - you said was of importance to him. That what you said mattered. That you mattered. It was heady stuff.

It was also a bloody good sign that he was serious.

Perhaps.

But it made Lestrade open up, as he rarely did.

"No, that would be the second rule. The first is 'Don't Fuck Up'. I don't think I could do this job if Britain had the death penalty."

"You worry about convicting an innocent?"

"It happens," said Lestrade, his expression grim. "Hardly surprising. Sometimes it's difficult not to get fixated on one suspect, which means there's a danger you unconsciously tailor the evidence to fit the crime. If there's a lot of publicity over a case it's even worse because the top brass get antsy and start pushing for a result without worrying too much if it's the right one. That's when it's easy to make a mistake - or to take your eye off your team, who are more vulnerable to pressure, particularly the ambitious ones."

"You're not ambitious?"

Lestrade exhaled noisily, aware that what he had to say would hardly win the admiration of one of the most powerful men he'd ever met. "The problem is, the higher you go the more paperwork there is and the less real policing you do. I'm already spending too much time behind a desk and as for the paperwork... No, I suppose I'm not. Not since I made DI, which I didn't expect, given my background."

"Background?" frowned Mycroft.

"No degree. Unusual nowadays. But enough about my lack of ambition."

"Not at all. I hear similar comments over and over again. Annie's sister is a nurse and says exactly the same thing. I've met several teachers who love to teach and so have to chose between promotion and the classroom. You enter a profession to do one thing and find yourself being promoted away from it."

"That didn't happen to you?" asked Lestrade curiously.

"No."

"Don't look so wary, I'm not going to ask what you do. But not field work?"

"Do I look like Daniel Craig?"

"Nobody looks like Daniel Craig. You've watched Bond films!" realised Lestrade with delight.

"One. My forfeit in a bet," Mycroft added ruefully.

"You didn't find the film like real life then?"

"Not like mine. Though as I have no head for heights..."

"I'm not too bad, though I wouldn't be daft enough to try any of those stunts. Can you imagine the forensic people trying to... Speaking of which, what did forensics find in the Roman case?"

"There was no foreign DNA. No physical evidence outside that of family life. No suspects. No relatives or friends were traced. The family weren't known to social services. The neighbours rarely saw them - and then not to speak to."

"I thought you only glanced at the file."

"I have an eidetic memory."

"You lucky sod. I wish I did. It would make the paperwork so much easier. I definitely didn't select this case. Too much time has gone by for a realistic conviction without DNA - witness statements would be unreliable, presuming the witnesses were still alive. From what you say there aren't any leads to follow. Where did you find the file?"

"I had nothing to read, so last night I picked up one of the box files by Sherlock's chair. This one slipped out of the folder containing the pathologist's report."

"Which case was it?"

"Number only. A headless woman's torso found in Regent's Canal last year. Never identified. You must think Sherlock can work miracles."

"Hoping," said Lestrade honestly, before he turned round. "Sherlock, how do you fancy a challenge from 1972?"

"What's the case?" he asked, when his attention was finally caught.

Lestrade explained.

"Typical! You couldn't keep your long nose out of it, could you," Sherlock said bitterly to his brother. "By the way, Lestrade, I've solved the Carson case." He failed to look becomingly modest.

Lestrade paused, frying pan in hand as he turned to him. "Yeah? Whodunnit?"

"The brother-in-law."

"Yes, he did. And he received an eighteen year sentence. Well done."

"You knew?"

Lestrade gave him a patient look. "Before I inflict you on my unsuspecting team I need to know there's a faint chance that you'll earn your keep," he said bluntly, seeing no need to sugar the pill.

"Logical," conceded Sherlock with a nod of approval. "So, these other files. Have they all been solved?"

"I wish. The Carson case was complex. To have solved it so fast is impressive."

"Not really. As soon as I realised he was having an affair with his sister-in-law it was quite - "

"_What_? That's not on file."

"Sloppy police work," sniffed Sherlock disparagingly.

Lestrade glanced at Mycroft. "Permission to backhand him with the frying pan."

"I would rather have breakfast first."

"Then you can brief us about the Roman case while we cook."

"We?" queried Mycroft warily.

"Even you'll be able to manage perfect scrambled eggs," Lestrade assured him.

Narrowing blue eyes suggested that might not have been the most tactful approach but what might have had Mycroft's minions trembling in their boots just made Lestrade grin and give Mycroft a nudge with his elbow before he issued a flurry of instructions.

Even Sherlock allowed that the eggs had been tolerable - there again, he didn't know Mycroft had prepared them. Filled with a ridiculous sense of achievement, Mycroft allowed himself another slice of toast and jam.

"What are you thinking about?" Mycroft asked a glassy-eyed Lestrade when Sherlock went to the bathroom.

"Intestines."

Lestrade looked mildly affronted when Mycroft began to laugh. "What?"

"Not the answer I was hoping for," Mycroft explained wryly as he licked jam from his index finger.

"No?" His mind clearly far removed from matters carnal, Lestrade was frowning at the Roman file. "There's something off about the scene-of-crime photos. Did the scanner turn up?"

Resigned, Mycroft nodded.

"Good. While I'm reading the file could you scan and print several copies of each photo, large as you can without losing definition."

Mycroft was about to point out that his responsibilities were usually more complex when it occurred to him that he was about to make a complete fool of himself. While he suspected he might be one of those 'pompous tossers' Gregory despised, he'd rather Gregory didn't find out just yet.

"Of course," he said.

Sherlock discarded four case files as 'boring', although whether that was because they really were dull, or because he couldn't solve them Lestrade wasn't sure. Just relieved that Sherlock was safely occupied, he lost himself in the minutiae of the Roman file, referring back to the enlarged printouts of the photographs as he read.

After a while he set the file to one side and spread the enlargements over the cleared breakfast table.

"What's so interesting?" demanded Sherlock, stalking over.

"There's something about these," said Lestrade absently. "The point of scene-of-crime photos is?"

"You've forgotten?"

"No, but I'm wondering if you have."

"Must I perform like a parrot?" complained Sherlock peevishly. "Oh, very well, if you insist. The purpose is to record the scene of death and anything else that might be pertinent, both inside and on the exterior, bagging any and every item that may be relevant."

"Exactly. So where's the 'anything else'? The bodies have been extensively photographed at every conceivable angle bar an overhead shot but not the rest of the flat, or even parts of the living room. There are no pictures of the means of entry, let alone of the exterior. The file from the pathologist is incomplete, his photos and full report are missing - though that isn't unheard of. Sometimes they use them for a lecture and forget to return them.

There's no mention of the clothing the children wore when they discovered the bodies. For reasons which aren't made clear it doesn't seem to have occurred to the investigating officer that the boy was a suspect. The sister too."

"The school gave both children an alibi," pointed out Mycroft.

In full work mode, Lestrade spared him only a glance. "I know. I went to the same school just over a decade later. Get yourself on the morning register and you could bunk off for the rest of the day with no one the wiser. 'Education' had more to do with crowd control than learning."

"There's the same focus in every picture," noted Mycroft as he leant over Lestrade's left shoulder.

"The Golden Ratio," said Sherlock, peering over Lestrade's right shoulder.

"Obviously, but why?" said Mycroft.

"What's the Golden Ratio?" asked Lestrade, feeling hemmed in.

"Just how ignorant are you?" said Sherlock impatiently.

"_Sherlock_," said Mycroft, an edge to his voice.

"He's right in this instance. Hackney Comprehensive can't compete with Eton."

"Westminster," corrected Sherlock, pulling a couple of pictures closer.

"Yeah? You jammy sods. More to the point, what's this Golden Ratio?"

"The Divine Proportion," said Mycroft.

"The Sacred Cut," offered Sherlock immediately.

"The Golden Mean," returned Mycroft.

"The - "

"Look, guys, I'm sure you could keep this up all day and I know the crime is thirty five years old but two people were butchered and three children orphaned."

"It _was_ juvenile. And crass," admitted Mycroft with a faint grimace. "I find it easier to focus on the problem or the puzzle rather than the individuals behind it."

"Me, too," conceded Lestrade. "Ignore me. Much as I enjoy a puzzle, there's something about this case that's... So, this Divine Proportion?"

"What it is matters less than what these photographs reveal. I was in danger of becoming too prolix."

Sherlock gave a derisive snort. "Surely not."

Mycroft ignored him to concentrate on marking up one of the scanned copies. "First a rectangle, then a triangle. The spiral starts here and its heart will frame the true purpose of the picture. Like so."

Five photographs later Lestrade was frowning at the intestines. "Either the photographer was so besotted with this Divine Proportion that he allowed it to interfere with his work or he was more involved in the murder than seems feasible."

"We assumed the intestines had been disturbed by the son but this arrangement obviously has some significance for the photographer," said Mycroft.

"Fetish?" said Sherlock.

"Ritualistic?" returned Mycroft.

Busy studying an unmarked photograph Lestrade lost interest in a discussion that rapidly descended into one-upmanship and barbed insults too obscure for him to understand. He helped himself to Sherlock's magnifying glass to examine the album covers of the various LPS which were just in shot, scattered across the carpet.

"Mycroft, the date of the murder was 16th September 1972."

"You've found something."

His eyes sparkling, Lestrade looked up and nodded. "This album cover here 'New Boots and Panties' wasn't issued until September 1977."

"Ah. Hackney Comprehensive one, Westminster nil," said Mycroft, looking amused.

"Well, done. Neither of us would have spotted that."

Lestrade ruffled his already spiky hair. "Damn, was I gloating?"

"Only a little. Allowable in the circumstances. Is the entire file a fake, do you think?"

"That I don't know. The entire Divine Proportion thing could have been done by whoever doctored the original photographs, rather than the original photographer. It would explain why there are so few. The paperwork looks genuine, both in content and aging. I'll check on the Met. personnel involved when I get back. I don't want to involve anyone else until I have a better idea of what's going on. If someone has been altering case files..."

"Quite," said Mycroft, sitting beside him. "If the photographs have been doctored so skilfully a certain amount of time must have been taken. It's unlikely it was intended for your benefit."

"Agreed. Thanks to you, I didn't have much time to make a selection. One of the PCs I started out with is working at the Police Archive in Hendon. He had a few suggestions of interesting but tricky cold cases. He made a copy of the Carson file, then doctored it for Sherlock. My DCS brought everything over just before I had to leave - though how you managed that..." Lestrade glanced up at Mycroft.

"If I told you I'd have to - "

" - kill me? Secret squirrel humour could use some work." Lestrade's expression slowly sobered as the implications of his discovery sank in. "This... A lot of the older case files still aren't stored electronically and I don't see much hope of it happening any time soon - unless our budget improves. Which leaves those files vulnerable. If someone in the main Archives has been playing silly buggers and word gets out, we're fucked because irrespective of the date of a case it will throw doubt on every conviction." He paused as he absorbed the implications. "Worst case scenario, every prison inmate will be after an appeal - the entire judicial system could collapse under the strain."

He rubbed his face with his hand, then looked up at Mycroft. "I know you're supposed to be on leave this week but this is way over my head. If ever there was a time for secrecy this is it. Every copper, every clerk who's worked at the Police Archive for the last forty years needs..."

Mycroft nodded. "Leave it with me."

"You won't tell the Commissioner the truth?" checked Lestrade.

"Mycroft wouldn't recognise the truth if it bit him on the arse," said Sherlock.

Lestrade, who had managed to forget him in the face of far greater concerns, jumped, then looked even more worried. "Sherlock, you know you can't talk about this?"

"He knows," said Mycroft. "And despite appearances to the contrary, you can trust him. As for myself, you might give me a little credit. I have no intention of telling the Commissioner anything until we're farther along with our investigations."

"Then how - ? Never mind. I know you can't tell me. And I do trust you. Sort of."

"And it was going so well up to that point," murmured Mycroft with a faint smile.

"It's just... This is personal." A little of the anger Lestrade felt was beginning to seep through his controls.

"How could it be otherwise. Only a couple of people knew you'd selected the headless torso case. Either the Roman file was placed in the box file deliberately for you to find, or it's been there since the file was opened - only a year ago."

"I hadn't thought it through that far. So...a year."

"Probably. That's where we'll start our investigation anyway," said Mycroft.

"I just remembered. The files. They went missing en route here. There's no possibility - ?"

"I'm sorry, there isn't. They were included in my luggage. Apart from the flight on to me they were in my possession the entire time."

"Damn," said Lestrade softly.

"While you two geniuses were examining the photographs why didn't either of you notice the picture of the London Eye over the fireplace?" said Sherlock, looking horribly smug.

There was a short silence.

"No one likes a smart-arse," Lestrade told him. "But well spotted. At least we know this was done post March 2000."

"No, that was the date of the official opening," said Sherlock absently.

"But why this case?" mused Mycroft.

"I'll contact the local nick," said Lestrade. "I used to know a few of the PCs based there."

"Professionally?" asked Mycroft.

"In a manner of speaking. One of them caught me shoplifting and instead of nicking me, bought me a sandwich and got me talking. Indirectly he's the reason I sorted myself out and knuckled down at school enough to start passing exams. I joined up at eighteen. It's thanks to him that I was able to - a record could have scuppered my chances. While he's dead, some of his mates might still be alive. A couple of pints down their local should do the trick without arousing suspicions."

Sherlock said: "So there's no point my solving this case then?"

Lestrade wheeled around. "You think you can?"

"I have. It was the son. Though the sister must have known, if she wasn't involved herself."

"He was my first thought. Later you can tell me how we can prove it. For a court of law."

"Ah," said Sherlock pensively.

"Work-in-progress then," said Lestrade.

After a considerable time on the phone Mycroft returned to the living area, glanced around and raised his eyebrows in silent question.

"He went for a walk," said Sherlock.

Mycroft looked at the rain-lashed windows, then back at his brother, who shrugged.

"I didn't say anything. But he was angry."

"With you?"

"With everything."

"It's hardly surprising," Mycroft pointed out.

"Why? It isn't his fault. Is it?"

"No. You've stopped working on the files?"

"There's no point if they're fakes."

"Did you find anything to indicate that they might be?"

"I haven't even opened six of them," Sherlock admitted. "That's why I never spotted the Roman file."

Mycroft had learnt the value of silence years ago. That it worked particularly well with Sherlock was just a bonus.

"I suppose we could go through them all," said Sherlock, after a while. "You have reasonable deductive skills, even if you are too lazy to use them."

The suggestion that they do _anything_ together was unprecedented. Even in childhood any offer had always been made by him, to be met with a sullen silence at best. That Sherlock should offer to share the work that meant so much to him...

His elation well hidden, Mycroft nodded. "A sound suggestion," he said. "Where would you like me to start?"

Lestrade stumbled into the hut as the light was failing, shuddering with the cold. Without a word he began to unpeel himself from his clothing, allowing items to plop in a soggy heap just inside the door. Wearing only his wet jeans, he headed for the bathroom.

"If there's no hot water I'm going to kill Sherlock," he said in passing.

After a glance at his expression even Sherlock had the sense not to respond.

By the time Lestrade reappeared, snug in the qivuit jacket Mycroft had given him, he was met with the delectable aroma of roasting chicken.

"I thought you couldn't cook," he said accusingly.

"I can't," said Mycroft, "but I'm capable of reading instructions. I looked it up on the internet. Though of course the test will be what it tastes like. Tea?"

"Thanks."

Lestrade wrapped his hands around the half pint mug of PG Tips finest as he studied the wall, which was now covered in printouts of scene-of-crime photographs. "I like what you've done to the place."

"Sherlock and I have been looking for anomalies in the other files. So far we've found nothing in the eight files we've double-checked, though given our differing fields of expertise you'll need to check them too."

Lestrade blinked, more moved than he cared to admit by the gesture. "Thanks, guys. I appreciate it. I'll get to work now."

"Um..." Mycroft looked untypically hesitant. "I didn't know what to prepare to go with the chicken."

More like how to, translated Lestrade. "No problem," he said easily.

oOo

While Mycroft got up early the next morning, Lestrade was already flicking listlessly through the Roman file. He nodded to Mycroft, who gave a resigned sigh and went to make tea. He had decided to force Annie to take a pay raise; he'd never appreciated just how demanding food preparation could be. Who knew chickens contained plastic bags full of internal organs? The plastic had melted during the cooking process, rendering their proposed meal inedible.

He checked the available food supplies, wondering what to have for breakfast, and gave the bottle of HP Sauce a dubious look, sniffed it and decided to live dangerously and try it with his scrambled eggs. On the same principle he checked his selection of teas and decided to break Lestrade in gently with a pot of Royal Oolong.

Lestrade took a gulp of tea, spluttered and gave Mycroft a look of betrayal.

"At least try it," said Mycroft mildly.

"I will, just not now. First thing in the morning I need tea strong enough to trot a mouse on. Something to wake me up - not least to cope with you."

"I see you're awake enough to negotiate," said Mycroft dryly.

"It would take more than tea for me to be capable of besting you," said Lestrade with conviction, only today there was nothing flirtatious about the exchange. He reached for a pale box file.

"I thought breakfast," said Mycroft.

"You go ahead," said Lestrade absently. "I just want to take a proper look at the Willesley file."

Mycroft reminded himself that dedication to the job was supposed to be a virtue and picked up a box file of his own - not because he was unable to remember the contents but because it would explain his concentration, should Gregory notice him at all, which seemed unlikely at present.

And the fact he was sitting here worrying about it was the reason relationships, particularly this one, were a terrible idea.

oOo

By the following day all the files had been checked and re-checked; none gave any indication of having been tampered with.

His knee stiff and aching after so much inactivity, Mycroft spent the morning walking it off.

He returned to find Sherlock muttering to himself as he divided his attention between a case file and the computer.

"Sherlock, did you ask permission to use the Detective Inspector's laptop?"

"Don't be ridiculous. He isn't using it."

Mycroft opened his mouth, caught Lestrade's amused gaze and closed it again.

"There's no private information on there," said Lestrade "and he seems to know his way around the system better than I do. Let's get some fresh air."

It was then that Mycroft made the delightful discovery that his absence for over two hours hadn't ever registered with Lestrade.

"Of course," he said, because he wasn't miffed enough to cut off his nose to spite his face.

"Good idea," said Sherlock, closing the laptop. "I could use some fresh air. When we get back Lestrade can cook us some lunch."

"Gosh, that'll be a treat," said Lestrade, abandoning hope of time alone with Mycroft.

"You want fresh air?" mocked Mycroft. "Having problems solving a case?" he added sympathetically.

In some things Sherlock was distressingly predictable.

"Alone at last!" said Lestrade, as they headed out into the boisterous weather that was blowing up. "Where did you get to earlier?"

"I spent a couple of hours walking," said Mycroft patiently.

"Oh. Hang on, will your knee be up to another walk so soon?"

"It's fine. Do you want to discuss - ?"

"Work is a banned subject. Favourite London bridge?" added Lestrade abruptly.

"What? Oh well, I suppose it's preferable to asking me my star sign."

"I'm saving that for later."

"I never took much notice of the bridges - unless I was caught in a traffic jam - but I confess a liking for the Millennium Bridge."

"Me, too. Favourite part of London?"

A spirited discussion followed, which saw them twice around the island, pausing only as they met the full force of the wind coming in off the sea. Waves battered the beach, sending froth flying up into the air.

By mutual consent they took refuge in the dunes, settling down behind the shelter offered by the grass humped mounds as sand swirled past them.

"Is your knee really all right?" Lestrade asked. Due to the noise made by the sea and the wind he was distractingly close.

"Provided I don't twist or jar it, it's fine"

To Mycroft's gratification, Lestrade suddenly swooped to cover him; just as he was confidently anticipating that parted mouth, Lestrade muttered, "Are you wearing your gun, only there's someone hiding in the dunes at two o'clock?"

"Ah." Mycroft hoped his chagrin wasn't obvious as he fumbled in his coat pocket for the work phone he had yet to train himself not to carry. A moment later he got the response he expected. "Relax, Gregory. It's only...Moneypenny." It belatedly occurred to him that Gregory had instinctively sheltered him with his own body. Something they would need to discuss - although certainly not at this stage.

Lestrade immediately got to his feet, with an enviable degree of ease considering the soft, unreliable sand underfoot, and immediately held out a hand. While pride wanted to refuse the aid it was easier to accept it rather than collapse when his aching knee gave way. Mycroft had just achieved the vertical when an embarrassed looking Anthea came into view.

"You owe me ten pounds," Mycroft told her sodden figure.

Lestrade blinked. "What?"

"My money was on you spotting her," Mycroft explained, in a voice tinged with amusement.

"So that's what you meant when you told her the fresh air would do her good? You're an unforgiving bugger, aren't you. Remind me never to get on your wrong side."

"Too late," Mycroft assured him, before turning his attention to Anthea.

"Sorry, sir, you were right," she said stiffly. Her nose was cerise with the cold as she turned slightly sideways, to avoid the worst of the wind-driven sand.

"Music to my ears. Where's David?"

"Asleep. We're taking twelve hour shifts. You almost landed on the pup tent," she added. "These dunes are the only shelter available."

"Are you mad, letting a rank amateur act as your security?" said Lestrade, because just for a split second he'd been imagining all kinds of nightmare scenarios.

It was a moment before Mycroft thought to firm his twitching mouth, Anthea's expression one to treasure, not least because her control was usually the equal of his own.

"You might well ask. Anthea seemed to feel that working in the field offered more interest and glamour, and that she would find it preferable to her current work. David has been with me for several years, is highly experienced and agreed to - um..."

"Babysit her?" completed Lestrade obligingly, understanding that Mycroft had his own way of making his point.

Anthea's cheeks were scarlet by this time, her jaw clenching.

"I trust this experience has cured you of wasting your talents?" said Mycroft, who was inclined to be merciful, if only in the hope that he and Gregory might be left in peace - and a degree of privacy.

"Oh, it has, sir," Anthea said fervently.

Sucker, thought Lestrade, not without sympathy.

"What a shame. Then you won't enjoy the next thirty six hours at all. I trust you have sufficient rations?"

"Yes, sir. That roast chicken smelt wonderful," she added with a trace of wistfulness.

"Don't play the sympathy card," Mycroft advised her placidly.

"It wasn't intended for you, sir."

"Ah, I believe you may have miscalculated."

"You two know I'm standing right here," said Lestrade, half-amused, half-resentful. Just what he needed, someone else who could communicate with Mycroft in half-sentences while he needed a join-the-dots sketch with X marking the spot.

Mycroft glanced at him and Lestrade felt a lick of heat. Or maybe not.

"Be elsewhere," Mycroft said to Anthea.

"Afraid I'll cramp your style, sir?"

"Just mine," said Lestrade, who was catching on fast.

She gave him a friendly grin. "You might want to move behind the next dune, if you want to avoid David. I'll be checking the perimeter on the far side of the island," she added, before she sauntered away, managing to look remarkably elegant considering what she was wearing.

"Does she often give you permission to snog?" asked Lestrade as he headed for the next high hump of grass covered sand.

"The situation hasn't arisen before," said Mycroft placidly.

Lestrade turned then, suddenly serious. "Has this...? Will it cause you any...? Your security knowing, about us, I mean?"

"They're not homophobic and it's inevitable that they would have to know about you."

"Ah."

"Will that be a problem?" asked Mycroft, watching him intently.

"They won't actually want a ringside seat, will they? Oh, stop laughing," grumbled Lestrade. "You know what I meant."

"More or less. And no, in usual circumstances we would have considerably more privacy."

"Well that's good. I foresee enough difficulties without performance anxiety entering the frame. And if you don't stop laughing there's not much chance of us kissing."

"There's a chance then?"

"Look, I know I said... Bastard, taking the piss out of the embarrassed man." Lestrade tried to remember the prissy stranger who had irritated him only slightly more than he'd attracted him, then settled himself in the shelter offered by the dunes. "I used to love snogging. You?"

"It's been a while," said Mycroft. Kissing had had little place in his encounters in recent years.

"Me, too."

Mycroft bent his head, nuzzling Lestrade's stubble-covered jaw, before lightly brushing the corner of his mouth with his own, and again, and again, soft and slow, taking his time until Gregory made a gratifying sound of impatience and kissed him until he was hard.

Cross-eyed with lust, Lestrade finally drew away a little, his breathing disorganised, one hand still flat in the small of Mycroft's back, reluctant to lose full contact.

"I think we should - "

"Yes," agreed Mycroft with obvious regret.

"The walk back should cool us down."

"I'll get up in a minute. And you can take that pleased look off your face, you haven't done anything clever," said Mycroft with asperity.

"That's not what you muttered a few minutes ago," pointed out Lestrade, rubbing Mycroft's side. "I could do with a short wait myself. I might have known you'd have an agile tongue."

"Not helping," Mycroft pointed out.

"Not trying to," confessed Lestrade.

"Come on," sighed Mycroft. "Back to the hut before we shock Anthea."

"Could we?" asked Lestrade, looking worryingly interested.

"I rather not find out," admitted Mycroft.

That piece of honesty earned him another pat. "Me neither," conceded Lestrade, offering Mycroft a hand up.

It was only then, as they met the full force of the wind, that they appreciated the storm had arrived.

Sherlock gave them an all-encompassing glance as they all but fell into the hut. "I would ask what you've been doing out there for so long but I'm afraid you might tell me and scar my brain forever. I'm deleting the information right now." He turned his back on them.

"Deleting?" muttered Lestrade, relieved to discover that all his clothing was buttoned and zipped.

"I'll explain later," sighed Mycroft.

Lestrade nodded and smiled smugly to himself. It had to be admitted, it didn't take a Sherlock Holmes to spot that Mycroft had been thoroughly kissed - and if he looked this debauched after a few kisses he couldn't wait to see what he looked like after he'd been...

oOo

After working all morning the following day, Lestrade looked up from his computer just before lunch. "Mycroft, did you say someone had collected my post, only I've just realised I haven't seen any?"

Before Mycroft could reply Sherlock said, "Oh, I wondered what that pile of junk was doing on top of my clean shirts. Do you want it?"

"Tosser," said Lestrade amiably.

Sherlock just grinned before he disappeared to fetch the post.

"I'm beyond apologising," murmured Mycroft.

"You'd think you'd have a collection prepared," said Lestrade mischievously.

"Oh, I do but none to cover what we've put you through."

"Not all bad," Lestrade assured him, his gaze on Mycroft's mouth.

Sherlock strode back into the room. "Here, your post," he said, tossing a bundle of envelopes onto the table.

"Gracious to the end," sighed Mycroft.

To Lestrade's relief there were no bills, only packages from his solicitor, the mortgage lender and a letter from his bank manager confirming the measures taken to protect against unauthorised payments into his account. There was also an astonishing amount of junk mail, which seemingly had the ability to follow you anywhere, then breed.

Relaxed, Lestrade ripped open the last envelope before staring at the contents. Some time later he became aware that Mycroft was standing beside him.

Lestrade pushed back his chair.

"Gregory?" said Mycroft with concern.

"It's nothing. I'm going for a walk," gabbled Lestrade, not sure what he was feeling.

Mycroft tossed him the packet containing the last cigarette and his lighter, thrusting out an arm when Sherlock darted forward to intercept them.

Lestrade grabbed his padded jacket and rushed out of the hut.

"That was my cigarette," protested Sherlock as the door slammed shut. "I was saving it."

"I know. Let it be," said Mycroft absently, resisting the temptation to twitch the abandoned letter closer.

With no such scruples, Sherlock was shifting through the opened mail. "Flat purchase, mortgage, bank manager, notice of the Degree Nisi."

"Ah," said Mycroft.

"I don't see what the problem is. He knew he was getting a divorce."

"Theoretically. Now it's becoming real. Relationships are complicated."

"How would you know?" jeered Sherlock. He was disconcerted to receive a look he didn't know how to interpret.

"I must have read it in a book," said Mycroft colourlessly. It wasn't as if Gregory hadn't warned him that he was an emotional mess...

Sherlock picked up another letter. "It might not have been about the divorce. His wife's pregnant."

"Sherlock! Put that down right now! For God's sake, you can't read other people's mail."

"Don't be absurd, I do it all the time. So do you."

"No," said Mycroft quietly, "I don't." He didn't need to, he had other people to do it for him. It always made him feel slightly grubby but this... A child changed everything. He was aware of a sickening lurch of disappointment. Being the man he was, at the very least Gregory would want to take responsibility for the child. Worst case scenario, he would try to reconcile with his wife.

Caring really was a waste of time and energy. Quite apart from being unacceptably painful.

Lestrade returned to the hut just after dark and went straight into the kitchen area.

"Do you need any help?" asked Mycroft without enthusiasm.

"Just keep Sherlock off my back."

An expert in sub-text, Mycroft nodded and retreated back to the living area, resigned to the sacrifice he was about to make. Not that their current detente would have lasted but he had enjoyed the chance to work with Sherlock, to see him apply his marvellous mind to something worthwhile.

"What?" said Sherlock defensively when he became aware of his brother looming over him.

"I was just wondering what you made of the statements in the Marlow case. Only it seemed to me that the - "

"You can't stop interfering, can you? When I want your 'help' - "

"You would rather the case remained unsolved?"

"Yes!"

While the ensuing 'debate' did nothing to help brotherly harmony, it ensured that Mycroft kept Sherlock's full attention.

Lestrade prepared a meal which he didn't even pretend to eat before he went off to his room to pack.

"We leave tomorrow," Mycroft reminded Sherlock. "What you don't pack will be lost. And you can't keep any of the cold case files so don't waste time trying."

oOo

The hut stripped of everything they had brought with them, Mycroft approached Lestrade. "Walk with me?"

"Sure," said Lestrade, although he looked preoccupied as he pulled on his jacket and followed Mycroft, who was armoured in a grey pinstripe three-piece suit, complete with watch-chain. Only the umbrella was missing. Even his body language seemed different. It seemed impossible that this man's face could ever have been alive with laughter, that he'd held his prick in his hand.

"I'm going to miss this place," said Lestrade. "Though it will be good to be back in London. When - ?"

"I have been considering our discussion about our future plans," Mycroft said, interrupting him. "I may have been too hasty."

The cool, dispassionate voice was its own warning.

Lestrade paused for a moment before he continued walking, his eyes fixed on the passage of his feet rather than his companion, who was looking less familiar by the second.

"You'd rather forget the whole idea," he recognised.

"Just so." For a moment Mycroft's expression was bleak before the bland mask which had seen him through so many difficult moments was back.

Lestrade nodded. Rejection wasn't a novelty and subconsciously he was always waiting for the axe to fall. He dealt with it the way he always coped with it and closed down.

"Well, that's that then. Thank you for telling me in person. I'd best get back or Sherlock will be trying to steal the cold case files again. I expect you'll be busy with calls on the flight."

"I'll be taking a separate flight, on the plane that's approaching," said Mycroft with his first trace of awkwardness.

Turned inward, Lestrade didn't notice. "Of course you will. Well, goodbye." He gave Mycroft a brisk nod and set off for the hut. He didn't look back, or pay attention to the plane that was landing.

He would be fine so long as he didn't stop and think, so long as he didn't allow himself to dwell on what he had lost before it was even his.

Lestrade's journey back to London had been trying. Sherlock had not only fallen out with Mycroft before they set off but had obviously failed to appreciate that he wouldn't be allowed to start work with Lestrade immediately. He didn't take the news well.

It was a while before Lestrade appreciated that it was all a front. Sherlock was afraid - terrified - of being alone again after such a short time off smack. With Mycroft flying off God knows where and himself back to work Sherlock would be alone, and without anything to keep that febrile mind of his busy.

"Look, I'm going to need a few days to catch up on the paperwork that will have built up in my absence. I'll contact you on Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. I've got your new address. In the meantime it's up to you to stay clean. Understand?" said Lestrade. He experienced an unwanted twist of compassion for the younger man - which would have horrified Sherlock if he'd known. Sherlock was going to be a constant, unwanted reminder of Mycroft - the last thing he needed or wanted right now but Sherlock deserved better than to be abandoned.

"I'm not an idiot," snapped Sherlock.

"Far from it."

"I don't have your address."

"No."

"I might need it."

It took Lestrade a moment to pick up on that need for reassurance. "I suppose you might," he agreed. "And you'll be welcome - if you announce your arrival rather than just breaking in."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What made you say that?"

"Call it intuition," said Lestrade dryly. "So, no breaking in. Deal?"

"Deal," said Sherlock sulkily. "Except in an emergency."

Certain that Sherlock's idea of an emergency wouldn't be his, Lestrade shook his head. "No breaking in, period."

"You're worried I'll interrupt you having sex?"

Lestrade flinched. Not thinking about Mycroft wasn't working too well so far. "That's my business. But if you break in our deal's off. Right, this is your new flat," he recognised, as David drew the car to a halt. "Here." He began to scribble quickly on the back of an envelope. "My address, number at the Yard, and my mobile. I'll help you carry your stuff up."

"It's fine," said Sherlock, with his bags at his feet.

"I'll call you Wednesday," Lestrade called, as the car pulled away, leaving the lonely looking figure standing on the pavement.

As David ferried bags and boxes down to his basement flat Lestrade fished for his keys. For a nasty moment he was afraid Sherlock might have pinched them.

"This can't all be mine," he protested, as David almost fell down the stairs, carrying another load of bulging bags.

"Mr Holmes hoped you wouldn't mind but we couldn't leave the bedding and stuff behind. He wondered if you would be able to use it," said David casually.

"Well, it'll save me having to buy some. It's OK, I'll get it all into the house." Lestrade clapped David on the shoulder. "Thanks."

"No problem, sir."

"Greg," said Lestrade patiently, as if he couldn't still hear the soft, precise voice saying 'Gregory'.

"Yes, sir."

"I hope you're this aggravating with Mycroft. Take care. And of him," Lestrade added because he couldn't help himself.

David's expression sobered. "Rely on it, sir."

Alone at last, suddenly it all felt too much: the potential for disaster if news broke that case files had been tampered with, the divorce, Julia, Mycroft...

Keep busy, Lestrade reminded himself before he began to move in all the bags: clothing, bedding, towels, even tins, packets and jars of food. All of which would ease the strain on his stretched finances.

It was several minutes before Lestrade noticed his surroundings. From the wreck he had left he found himself staring at smooth walls, painted a soft bone white, the floorboards sanded and polished, the skirting boards and doors stripped back to reveal polished wood. Work that would have taken him weeks...

On the table was a large basket of fruit and another full of jars of honey, jam and chutney - homemade, of course - and at the bottom a hand-knitted sweater. The housewarming card wishing him well in his new home was signed by Len and Annie Hilliard, and included Len's thanks for allowing him to have so much fun. There was also a short separate note.

'Mycroft asked me to leave the fruit and this for you in case he couldn't be there himself, LH.'

Lestrade stared at the exquisitely wrapped parcel. The note was dated yesterday. Before...

He ripped open what looked like handmade paper to find a perfect die-cast model of an Aston Martin, together with a month's supply of nicotine patches.

He stared at the car for so long without blinking that his eyes began to smart, then pushed up the sleeve of his sweater to apply a patch to his arm, just above the elbow. If he could survive a divorce without smoking full time he could certainly survive the loss of Mycroft Holmes.

But fuck it, there was nothing that said he had to enjoy it.

Shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.

THACKERAY: _Vanity Fair_

END

of Part One of the series _Fire and Ic_

14


End file.
